Children Born of Ice
by Femme aux Mille Visages
Summary: Alfred is a figure skater training for the Olympics. The rink he trains is where Matthew's hockey team trains. Most of the team looks down on his figure skating, and his fathers don't help with the stereotypes. Co-captain Ivan Braginski in particular enjoys tormenting him, until Ivan confesses that he is an ex-ballet student who misses the arts. FACE family, RusAme, AmCan brotherly
1. Falling Out of Toe Loops

Children Born of Ice

Chapter 1

Alfred gears himself up for his fifth attempt at the jump with the determination of someone who had fallen on their ass the previous four times. He ignores the cold biting at his cheeks in favour of paying greater attention to the edges of his blades digging into the ice as he picks up speed. He loves his afternoon practices with his coach, and he loves competitions, but his favourite time to skate is during these early hours where there is nothing but him and the ice and his own brilliance. And technically his father, but he's usually asleep before Alfred even hits the ice. Not that he can blame Arthur, because it takes a special kind of person to want to wake up at three o'clock in the morning to skate.

He pushes all of his thoughts aside as he pulls himself around the corner, pushing faster and faster until he digs in his toe pick and flies into the air. The quad lutz goes flawlessly: tight, clean, perfect. The scorpion turn landing that he's been trying to convince his coaches to put in his routine, however, is just shy of disaster. He does manage to stick the landing this time, saving him from a painful fall, but his ankle wobbles twice and the turn lacks finesse. He lets himself spin out and then starts to prep for a sixth attempt when he is interrupted by a shout from the side of the rink.

"Alfred!"

He represses a groan. His Papa's voice can only mean one thing: his ice time is up, and it's time for Mattie's ice hockey practice. With an exaggerated air of resignation, he slows and skates over to the boards where Francis is standing.

"How was practice today, mon puce?" Francis asks.

Alfred glares. "You know I hate when you call me that."

Papa pretends to look affronted. "I cannot imagine why not. Would you prefer something else?"

"Perhaps something that doesn't mean some form of vermin?"

"Is Arthur asleep again?" he asks, already suspecting the answer. Sure enough, there on the bleachers is a mop of highly untidy blonde hair dozing in a nest of insulated clothing. Arthur never could handle the chill of the rink, and the sight makes both of them smile. Alfred sits and starts unlacing his skates, rubbing the arches of his feet, and Francis presses a mug of coffee into his hands. He nods his thanks, lets the bitter liquid run over his tongue. His Papa always did make the best coffee, rich and strong. Mattie must have already headed to the locker room, he notes with regret. He'd been hoping to see his brother today and wish him luck on his game.

He finishes tying his boots and starts up the bleachers to shake his Dad awake so he can catch an hour or two of sleep before school starts. Unfortunately, this plan is interrupted by several loud shouts from the new occupants of the ice. He curses under his breath, and it takes all of his self control not to turn around and look at them. Once he makes eye contact with them, all his self control flies out the window, and that's not something he can afford now. Not with the Olympic trials less than two months away. Not now.

"Look, it's the little skating fairy!"

"Ready to join Disney on ice, Alfairy?"

"Are you as queer as your uniform?"

The logical part of his brain is telling him _They're not worth it_ and _How many Olympics have they qualified for_ and _These insults aren't even clever!_ But it was so hard to ignore the fact that dim-witted or not, they were still jeering at him. Steeling himself, he shook his dad's shoulder.

"C'mon, Dad, wake up."

"Mmm."

"Dad, let's go."

"Hmm."

"Arthur!"

"Alfred? What, what is it? And how many times have I told you not to use our first names?"

"Of course it's my bad manners that wake you up," Alfred muttered. "Dad, my practice time's up. Mattie and Papa are here."

"Oh. Do you want to go to the car, maybe catch a bit of sleep before school?"

"Please."

His dad starts to gather his coat around him, checking that Alfred still has his skate bag, mumbling questions like _Do you have your skates? and What about your legwarmers? _and_ Did Francis bring you coffee again? I keep telling him not to, the caffeine will dehydrate you_, completely oblivious to the hostility of the players on the ice, skating in lazy circles as the puck sails from one of them to the other.

Alfred takes the bleachers two at a time on the way down, bounding down them in an effort to get out of there as quickly as possible. He is delayed, however, by his father's considerably slower steps and brief, murmured conversation with Papa. He bounces from foot to foot, jittery in his desperation to get to the car faster. Arthur notices his little dance of anticipation, and, grumbling, at last starts in the direction of the rink doors. The hockey players, however, cannot resist one final jab before they leave.

"Hey, Alfred, are you as gay as your fathers?"

Alfred snaps. He charges straight at them, ready to vault over the boards and beat them to a bloody pulp; he doesn't care if they're wearing padding, he is strong, you don't win four Junior Olympic gold medals and an invitation to the real deal if you're weak, he's going to destroy them. He can feel something-no, someone, probably his dad-dragging at his clothes, but it is not enough, not nearly enough to hold him back. He can hear someone yelling _Francis_! and a second pair of hands join the first, desperate to keep him from reaching the ice and getting himself disqualified from his dream. He is only stopped when a pair of hands meet his shoulders, pressing back with a force almost equal to his own, and he finds himself face to face with Mattie, who looks less than impressed.

"What the hell is going on?"

The other players don't even have the decency to look sheepish, and Mattie shakes his head.

"Laps. All of you. Go. Now."

One of them opens his mouth like he's about to protest, but quickly shuts it when Mattie points to the 'C' on his jersey. Mattie may not be god, but he is team captain, and when it comes to the starting lineup for today's game they might as well be the same thing. The two players that stand to either side of him hesitate a little longer and Matthew spins around in annoyance.

"What did I-oh. It's you two. You're fine, go shoot some warmup shots."

The two, a small blonde kid with a sweet smile who hasn't even finished putting on his helmet and gloves yet and a looming figure whose face is completely obscured by his mask skate off towards the goal.

"How come they get off easy?" Alfred demands of his brother.

"Because they were in the locker room with me when you started your suicide act. Do you want to get suspended? Go to jail for assault? Get disqualified from the Olympics?"

"They insulted Dad and Papa."

Matthew's mouth sets in a grim line.

"Leave them to me, eh? I promise we'll get that sorted out."

Alfred is extraordinarily glad he is not on the hockey team right now. Mattie in a bad mood is scary.

"Anyway, in case I don't see you again, good luck at your game, bro."

"Don't let them rile you up so much next time. They're just idiots."

"Idiots with big fat mouths," Alfred grumbles, but he nods anyway. Mattie claps him on the shoulder again and skates off to join the team as he glumly joins his fathers. Arthur gives him a pat on the shoulder and Francis ruffles his hair affectionately. Still, as he curled up in the backseat, all he could hear was the team jeering at his sport, tossing and turning in the backseat.

As a result of his fitful sleep, he dozes off during first period math class. His teachers are usually pretty lenient about his exhaustion early in the morning-they know his skating schedule is grueling-but they won't tolerate outright sleeping, and so he gets a lunchtime detention. The last thing he remembers is Felix rabbiting on and on about the slope of a function, and suddenly Kiku is shaking him awake.

"Alfred, I am terribly sorry to disturb you, but-"

"Mr. Williams-Jones. I expected better of you. I understand that your skating schedule is a most demanding one, but you should be able to succeed both academically and athletically."

"Mhm. Sorry, Mr. Wang."

"You're the spitting image of your father when you were his age. I vaguely recall his being unable to respect any authority figure as well."

"Listen, I get that I was sleeping in class. Whatever. But leave your weird personal issues with my dad out of it, please."

"Lunchtime detention. 12:15. And count yourself lucky it wasn't after school, which would cut into your training time."

Alfred knows he should cut his losses and bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming some other choice insults at Wang Yao, math teacher and evil demon. Instead, he gathers his belongings and stalks out of the room with whatever dignity he can still muster when the bell rings. Kiku hurries after him.

"Alfred! Alfred, please wait up!"

He obediently slows. He might hate his dad, and Dad might hate Mr. Wang, but he could never hate Kiku. He's been too good of a friend these past few years.

"Dude, I'm sorry, I just-"

"I understand. My father, he can be...difficult to deal with."

"I just-I wouldn't care so much if he told me off for not paying attention or whatever. Like, I know I deserved that, it's just that with him it always has to be personal. He always has to drag my dad into it somehow, and I'm sick and tired of people dragging my dad into things."

"Something occurred at the rink this morning?"

"Just the hockey team."

"Ah."

"They...they made a comment about my dads. I don't care what they say about my skating or whatever, I just want them to leave my family out of it."

"Sometimes people are just narrow-minded, Alfred."

"Yeah, but I'd appreciate if they could be narrow-minded somewhere else."

Kiku gives him a long look.

"I mean, if they wouldn't be narrow minded at all," he hastily amends.

"That's not what you meant."

"No, no it's not," Alfred sighs. "It's just-for once, I want them to understand what asshats they're being because they understand, not because Mattie makes them skate extra laps or whatever."

"If you are motivated by vengeance, it will surely consume you."

"I don't want that either! I just-forget it, Kiku. You're right."

Kiku stares at him again, but mercifully drops the subject. They fall into step beside Felix and Toris, and take their places at the cluster of desks where Michelle is already sitting, adjusting one of her hair ribbons. As soon as she catches sight of them, she excitedly waves and offers them a lollipop from her "Sack of Snacks."

"I swear you have some kind of infinite ammo code on this thing," Alfred mutters as he takes a Snickers bar.

Michelle laughs and Kiku nods in agreement. Felix and Toris are too immersed in their debate between the merits of bubblegum and bubblegum flavoured lollipops. Toris is firmly on the side of bubblegum, to which Alfred heartily agrees, whereas Michelle and Felix are stalwart defendants of lollipops. Their conversation is cut off, however, by the flustered arrival of their teacher, the ever-polished Mr. Edelstein.

"Everyone sit down, please."

This request was absolutely unnecessary; from the moment the bell rang, all of them have been glued to their chairs. One simply does not mess around in Mr. Edelstein's literature class. It is a Thing That Is Not Done. Without even bothering to take roll call, he writes Themes on one side of the board and Symbolism on the other. Alfred normally isn't a fan of English class, but he's been enjoying Mr. Edelstein's course so far. It's easily one of the most challenging he's taken, but they're studying Oscar Wilde right now, and Alfred actually finds himself liking the book. It's funny sometimes, and unlike Shakespeare, doesn't require endless hours painstakingly trying to figure out what this word or that word meant.

"Dorian Grey. What do you think he symbolises?" Mr. Edelstein postulates.

"Beauty," Michelle says straight off the bat. Mr. Edelstein nods, writing it on the board while motioning with his free hand for the class to keep going.

"Youth," suggests Belle, and her brother is quick to chime in with "A fickle nature."

"Good! Keep going!"

"Um-redemption?" Alfred winces at the voice of one of the hockey team members. Mathias, he thinks, or maybe Lukas. He isn't sure. And for some reason, he finds himself opening his mouth and jumping in with:

"Forbidden."

At this, Mr. Edelstein turns around. "Forbidden. Interesting. Why do you say that, Mr. Williams-Jones?"

"Well, I-" he falters, losing his resolve. He's never been the brightest kid in the class. Usually, he jumps in anyway, but from the look in Mr. Edelstein's eyes he's just said something terribly wrong, and he's not a teacher to cross. But Kiku gives him an encouraging smile, and so he soldiers on.

"I thought it was pretty obvious that Basil and Grey loved one another. But they couldn't love one another because of where-or when-they lived, and so they decide not to do anything about it. And when Grey sees the ruined painting of it, he doesn't see his own wrongdoing, he sees Basil telling him that he's not worthy of his love. So he kills him, and it's that moment of jealousy and betrayal that he atones for at the end, not any of his other sins."

"How perceptive of you, Mr. Williams-Jones. You have looked at this piece with a strong level of sensitivity and precision. I encourage you to write about it for your paper, and to continue exploring this theme throughout the other books we will read. Well done."

His friends are all smiling now, looking as proud of him as if they'd said it themselves. He's about to relax and smile with them when the voice that makes his blood run cold comes from the back of the classroom.

"Well, Alfred would know much about gay love, da?"


	2. Scorpion

Chapter 2

Scorpion

Mr. Edelstein carefully adjusted his spectacles. "Mr. Braginsky, I must warn you to tread very lightly. While all students are encouraged to think for themselves and share their opinions, even controversial ones, I will not tolerate prejudice in this classroom. Is that understood?"

Ivan's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I meant no disrespect. It is well known that Alfred and Matthew have two fathers, I only wondered if Alfred knew from experience."

Mr. Edelstein folded his arms and stared at Ivan, but only for a second more. With one last wary look, he turned back to the whiteboard and began drawing arrows between the themes, speaking rapidly about the connections the class thought Wilde might have been trying to have his readers draw. Or something. Alfred really wasn't sure, because he'd stopped paying attention the moment Ivan had spoken.

Next to him and Matthew, Ivan was easily the most talented ice-sports-guy at their school. Alfred loathed to admit it, but Ivan might even be better than his brother. It helped that he was far larger than any higschooler had a right to be (seriously, what steroids did they feed their children in Russia? You could call it a stereotype all you wanted, but after four Junior Olympics, he thought it was a little more than that.) But more than his sheer size was the casual violence he brought to the ice. Matthew was a speedster, but he could definitely pull of some strong checks. When he hit you, you'd feel it-Alfred spoke from experience. But when he did hit you, you knew it was coming. He skated with purpose and aggression. When Ivan checked people on the ice...it was like hitting them wasn't all that out of the ordinary for him, or even all that difficult. Sometimes he'd even be laughing or smiling, which Alfred found creepy as fuck.

He was drawn out of his musings by a stern voice calling: "Mr. Williams-Jones."

It was all Alfred could do not to kick the desk in frustration. Twice in two periods had to be some kind of record for him, and if he got detention after school his coaches were going to _kill _him.

Swallowing, he turned to Mr. Edelstein. "Yes, sir?" He hoped deference would soften the blow.

"See me after class."

"Like, nice going Alfred! Do you want to really piss off Ludwig today or something?"

"No! It's just-I can't focus today. The qualifiers are too soon, I'm not ready for them!"

Checking to make sure that Mr. Edelstein wasn't looking, Michelle slipped him another Snickers bar with a wink. "Here, Alfred, have a Snickers."

A smirk toyed at the corners of his mouth. "Why?"

"Because you act like Felix when you're hungry."

"How exactly do I act like Felix?"

"A melodramatic diva who is constantly on the verge of some artistic crisis."

"I take offense to that!"

"Yeah! What he said!"

"Mhm. Riiiight. The two of you aren't similar _at all._"

"Oh, up yours, Chelle."

"Yeah, Chelle, totally not cool!"

"Don't call me Chelle!"

Kiku fiercely dug his elbow into Alfred's ribs and Toris tugged on Felix's sleeve. The group obediently quieted down; currently those two were the only ones with above average GPAs and they didn't want to risk pissing off their free homework tutors.

When the bell rang, Kiku offered to wait, but Alfred waved him and the rest of his friends on, mouthing _I'll catch up later! _to them as they headed out. He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet and sank back onto his heels as he waited for Mr. Edelstein to finish gathering up his papers, furtively glancing at the clock every few seconds.

"I'll write you a pass, you know, you don't have to worry about being late."

Alfred flushed. "Sorry, I didn't wanna look impatient, I'm just nervous about-"

"I understand. I want to commend you on your fine work in class today. Your comment about which actions Grey shows remorse over was the most in depth part of conversation we've had in this class all year."

"Mr. Edelstein? Am I in trouble? Because if not, can I-"

"Talking with a teacher can mean more than trouble."

"It can?"

"Usually it doesn't," Mr. Edelstein conceded. "But in this case, yes."

Alfred tugged at his sleeve. "What did you want to talk about, then?"

"You seemed most uncomfortable after Mr. Braginsky's comment. Understandably, it was completely out of line. Does this sort of thing happen often?"

"You're not going to give me detention?"

"As I understand it, you've already been given a lunchtime detention, and I don't particularly want Ludwig cutting my head off. I like it where it is, and so does my wife."

"You know Ludwig?"

"Mr. Williams-Jones, you never struck me as the modest type. Do try and remember sometimes that you are a future Olympian, and that many details of your private life are well known to members of the general public," he remarked dryly.

"Oh. Right. I mean, that's cool that people keep up with my training."

"But I also happen to know Ludwig personally. He is a cousin of mine, and I attended graduate school with his brother, although how that man managed to get in…"

"Sure. Do you want me to tell him you say hello?"

"That would be very kind of you. Tell him Roderich says hello, and that both he and Elizaveta pass on their heartfelt love to Gilbert."

"'Kay. Anything else?"

"Yes. I've already told you you have a pass for your next class, why are you in such a hurry to leave? Anyway, I was concerned by your reaction to Mr. Braginsky's comment. Does this sort of thing happen often?"

Alfred shrugged. "I'm used to their comments."

"Mr. Williams-Jones, I do not appreciate your casual attitude towards-"

"Really, Mr. Edelstein, it's okay. Kind of comes with the territory of being-"

"-bullying, the school takes these kinds of things very seriously-"

"-a male figure skater, kind of like a guy who does ballet or stuff."

"-you shouldn't _have_ to expect things like that, that's not-"

"Mr. Edelstein!"

The teacher's lips pursed, and although he resolutely refused to look away from Alfred, he did have the decency to blush.

"I don't really care all that much. I mean, nothing they say is going to change anything about me, whether I'm straight or not, or whether I skate or not, or whatever. I mean, the best thing they're going to be are campus town hockey players, and I'm going to the Olympics because _I'm just that awesome._"

"You are...undoubtedly one of the strangest students I have ever had the pleasure of teaching."

"I'm not strange, I'm an outlier!"

"Mr. Williams-Jones, do you know what an outlier is?"

"Strange means you're an outcast, in a bad way. An outlier means you're better than everybody else in the room."

"….Fine, then, an outlier. But if these students' comments really don't bother you, why were you unable to pay attention for the remainder of my class?"

Alfred grimaced. "They pulled my family into their stupid insults. I don't like it when they do that."

"Understandably. Few people would."

"Is that all, Mr. Edelstein? I think if I run, I can still make it to half of chem."

"Yes, yes, go. But if you ever need someone to talk to, I have two fully functional ears. All those rumours about me bathing in the blood of students are only half-true."

"You bathe in the blood of students!?"

"Only the ones I don't like."

"Oh. That must be hard to get out of your towels."

Roderich shook his head, signing the paper with a flourish. "Go to class, Mr.-"

"Alfred."

"Go to class, Alfred. And remember that some of us are rooting for you."

"Mhm. Thanks, Mr. Edelstein."

And with that, Alfred grabbed the note and his bag and took off for the stairs of the science wing, leaving Roderich behind in the classroom staring at the door in amused bewilderment.

"Just like him," he murmured. "No wonder Ludwig calls him his protégé."

Alfred, however, did not overhear, as he was already halfway to chemistry. When he burst in, red-faced but thankfully not sweaty, he pressed the note into Ms. Lin-Wang's hand. She didn't even bother reading it before waving him towards the lab tables where Matthew is already waiting.

"What took you so long?" Matthew hissed.

"Mr. Edelstien wanted to talk to me," Alfred replied with a shrug.

"Oh my _god, _Alfred, please tell me you didn't get a detention."

"No, although Yao gave me a lunchtime one."

"Oh. Dad's gonna kill you for that, I hope you know."

"Eh, with any luck he won't find out."

"Yao'll mention it to him at their next custody meeting, I promise."

"Yao gives out like, forty detentions a day. I doubt it means that much."

"Yeah, but it's _you._ He never passes up an opportunity to make Dad's life hell."

Alfred grimaced. "Anyway, what are we doing?"

Matthew adds a few more drops of the clear liquid to the blue one in the beaker. No change. Swearing viciously under his breath, he writes something down and tries again, adding just as little liquid as he did the first time. Still no change. He thumbs through his notes, trying to figure out where the mistake is, when Alfred taps the page.

"You converted the moles wrong. It should be…" here he crosses out some of Matthew's work and writes above it in blue pen. Double checks his own calculation, then crosses out his own previous work and tries it again. Still no dice, but he succeeds on the third try, to Matthew's eternal gratefulness. Their work was becoming messy on the point of being illegible. Alfred fills the graduated cylinder with more acid and is about to tip in the next few drops when suddenly his elbow is jostled by a student walking by and the entire fifteen milliliters empties itself into the beaker. Matthew groans and very nearly puts his head in his hands, before remembering that the gloves he is wearing are covered in chemicals and this is probably a Very Bad Idea. The liquid had turned pink, as it was supposed to-but with that large of an acid addition, they would be unable to determine if their calculated predictions were correct.

Alfred turned to see which of the students knocked into their elbow, about to demand an apology. The only student out of their chair is Ivan, who is rinsing beakers in the sink. His eyes narrow dangerously, and one of the members of the curling team who follows Ivan around like a kicked puppy actually trembles with fear. Stalking over to the sink, he grabs Ivan's arm.

"You and I are gonna talk, after class."

"Why? Do you have some questions about the classwork you missed?"

"No, Einstein, I wanna talk about why you felt the need to fuck up my lab."

"It was simple mistake, da? Easy for anyone to make."

"Yeah, but funny enough, it wasn't just 'anyone' who made that mistake. So we're gonna talk."

"Alright. But I do not have a free block after this class. Perhaps during lunch, then?"

"Mr. Wang gave me detention," Alfred grumbles.

Ivan smiled like someone had just promised him he was getting a puppy after school.

"Ah, you have been running your piggish little mouth again, haven't you?"

"You leave my problem with Mr. Wang out of it, hear me?"

"But why? Surely you must hold some affection for him."

Before Alfred can retort, the bell rings, and he returns to his brother's lab table, shaking his head. They both worry their bottom lips, knowing their labs will be marked down because they weren't able to prove their results, and they start to wordlessly gather their things. Beakers and cylinders get dumped in the sink to be washed off, Ms. Lin-Wang warning them not to get the chemicals on anyone's hands and to please keep their gloves on until the end of the cleanup. Tables get wiped down, pens and notebooks stuffed in bags, lab packets heaped on her desk in a messy pile. Her mouth thins when Ivan walks by, but if she disapproves of his conduct in the lab she doesn't say.

Matthew mouths _Want me to take care of him?_ on their way out the door and jerks his head in Ivan's direction, but Alfred shakes his head no. Ivan is something he has to deal with on his own. Even as Matthew departs for AP Government and Alfred heads towards the library-even if he doesn't get any work done it's a quiet place to sleep and think-he can't shake the feeling that those empty purple eyes are still staring at him, and a Russian-accented voice follows him with _Mr. Wang….fathers...gay love...piggish_ echoing in his head.


	3. When the Punches Hurt More Than Ice

A/N: Huge shout out and thank you to Espresso_Yourself, my wonderful, wonderful beta. Not only has she helped me fix all my godawful tense problems, she also has introduced me to Free!, shares my addiction to caffeine, and is a wonderful friend. We are currently co-authoring a project, so stay tuned!

The library was not oft-visited by the students of Wilson Regional High School. The books' bindings were well worn and tattered and the pages dog-eared. The sunlight, tinged gold, filtered in through the high windows and illuminated the swirling dust motes that rose from the well worn furniture. Alfred made his way to the alcove near the back of the second floor, running his fingers over the spines of the books he knew well, despite never opening them. After all, he was buried deep in the recesses of Supreme Court Cases, whose books held no interest for him. He lay down upon the sofa, hearing the soft sigh of old cushions as it sank beneath him, launching a fresh wave of old paper dust into the air. He closed his eyes and drifted away on the scent of ink, sinking into ice flurries and the echoes of Ivan's giggles.

Alfred woke sweating. Peeling off his beloved bomber jacket and fanning his t-shirt away from him, he chanced a look at his cellphone. Twenty minutes to twelve. Not long enough to go back to sleep, but too early to go to his lunchtime detention. An alert beeped on the screen: 6 unread messages. Curious, he opened the message tab.

**_Kiku: Alfred? Where are you? We were meant to study together._**

**_Kiku: Alfred?_**

**_Chelle: yeah, Al, where r u? _**

**_Toris: u ok? u've been off today. Felix says hi._**

And then two more from his brother:

**_Mattie: Al, u never told me what Mr. Edelstein wanted. u in trouble?_**

**_Mattie: Leon's doing dinner 2nite, not 2mrw. avoid talking abt detention _**

"Shit," Alfred muttered. He hadn't meant to forget about the study session, but he'd just been so tired. All he'd wanted was a nap. Instead he'd managed to spectacularly upset his friends, worry Mattie, and (although it hadn't happened yet, he was sure of the oncoming doom) had received a personal invitation to The Dinner Party of Death. Fabulous. A quick mass message apology should suffice for his friends, although Kiku would want a more personal explanation later.

**_Alfred: sry guys fell asleep in the library. make it up after school?_**

Followed by another reply to Mattie,

**_Alfred: dunno. just talked i'll tell u what he said home. also, fuck, r u serious? shit-show of the century._**

Flicking the sleep button on his phone, he tucked it into his back pocket, shrugged back into his bomber jacket, and headed off towards the dean's office. He tapped on the door frame.

"Um, Mr. Adnan?"

"...I swear to God, if it weren't for the fact that all of his students score at least a 4 on the AP exams I would have fired him years ago…"

"Mr. Adnan?"

"That, and the fact that every time I'm about to he buys me some ridiculously extravagant present…"

"Mr. Adnan, it's Alfred."

"Hm? Oh, Alfred. Please pay no attention to my ramblings. What is it?"

"I've been given a lunchtime detention by Mr. Wang."

"Again?"

"Yeah, I kind of nodded off in class."

Mr. Adnan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Well, if his class is as boring as his presentations at staff meetings, I don't blame you." Alfred concluded that it must have been his imagination, because he cleared his throat and hand Alfred a signed pink slip.

"Here. I presume he's going to have you do homework again?"

"Probably. Well, um, anyway, I better-"

"Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to get another one, hm? If he gives you a fifth before the fall term is up, you might have to serve an in-school suspension."

"Right. No more detentions from Mr. Wang. Anything else?"

"No, go. Also, if you see Heracles, would you-"

"Who?"

"Mr. Karpusi."

"Oh. Yeah, sure, I'll send him in. Is he 'getting fired' again?"

"Sometimes, Alfred, you know entirely too much about the private lives of the faculty. Now scram!" he said, waving him out the door, although he smiled as he did so.

Alfred disappeared with a wink and a wave. They both knew the day Mr. Adnan fired Mr. Karpusi was the day Matthew stopped eating maple syrup on his pancakes. Unfortunately for him, Mr. Wang was not in nearly as cheerful a mood. He was on the phone to someone, talking in loud, angry Chinese, as he stalked up and down the length of the room. Upon seeing Alfred, he pointed angrily at the empty desk and mimed writing with his free hand. Not wanting to risk getting another detention, Alfred hastened to the seat and pulled out his chemistry notes. For a minute, the air was thick with nothing but the scratching of his pencil filling in the gaps of Yao's endless anger. He wasn't usually a wagering man but he'd bet that the person getting a tongue lashing on the other end of the line was Leon. Or Lei Su, as Yao insisted he be addressed by.

It was halfway through his detention when Yao finally hung up the phone. Alfred continued to work through balancing the equations, but his neck kept prickling oddly, and he looked up at the sensation. Yao was staring at him, not with anger as much as with fatigue.

"Go," he said.

"Huh? But the-"

"Are you deaf, or mentally retarded? I said _go!_"

Alfred ran. He pushed his way through the crowds of people gathering in the cafeteria, waiting in line for lukewarm mac and cheese and reheated corn dogs. He would have been fine with getting food from the lunch line, but Papa and Dad insisted that the boys bring their own lunches from home, due to 'concerns over nutritional content.' Honestly, Alfred thought that Dad need to get the stick out of his ass, but he couldn't exactly complain when Papa made the lunches. Nothing like a home-baked croissant to brighten a really crappy day. Still wading through clusters of people, he spotted Chelle's hair ribbon at a table far off to the left. Breaking into a jog (ignoring Mr. Zwingili's cries of 'No running in the cafeteria!') he dropped into the chair next to Toris and across from Kiku.

"Al!" Toris exclaimed, the rest of the group quickly joining into a cacophony of greetings.

"We weren't expecting-didn't you have lunchtime detention with Mr. Wang?"

"He spent all his time shouting at someone on the phone. I think it was Leon," Alfred replied. "He's coming for his week with us early."

Felix and Chelle winced. Toris and Kiku at least hid their feelings a little bit better, but it was clear that none of them would want to be in his shoes right now. Alfred shrugged and started digging around in his bag for his lunch sack. He resurfaced with the wrinkled brown paper bag, only slightly squashed by his various textbooks, and said a quick prayer that it was Papa's turn for lunches. He didn't consider himself particularly religious, but one needed all the help one could get when it came to eating his dad's cooking. Sure enough, as further confirmation that the world hated him, instead of fresh croissants or a croque monsieur, his lunch consisted of one very soggy, sorry-looking tuna sandwich. Alfred was about three seconds away from throwing a tantrum. Arthur _knew_ he hated tuna, it gave him an upset stomach on training days, it was _Mattie_ who liked tuna, and even then not all that much. He especially hated it when there was celery involved.

Kiku had pushed his bento box towards him in invitation, and Felix, Toris, and Chelle had likewise offered him bits and pieces of their lunches, but he waved them all aside. He wasn't certain if it was the tuna salad, or Ivan, or just the upcoming national qualifiers, but he felt like there was a large lump of coal sitting in the pit of his stomach. Eating was about last on his list of things he wanted to do right now.

His thoughts were cut off by something bumping against his lips.

"Here," Chelle said, and when he opened his mouth to protest, she slipped the spoon inside. He smiled at the familiar flavours of ginger, garlic, and coconut. Her traditional shark chutney, now made with scallops due to a lack of readily available shark. He obediently chewed and swallowed, and when he opened his mouth to thank her, she merely took another spoonful and fed it to him.

Felix took this opportunity to chime in. "We're, like, worried about you, Al. I mean, you probs don't feel super amazing right now because Mr. Wang's, like, a total dick-" here he paused to giggle at his own joke, which led to Alfred and Chelle's own riotous laughter and Kiku's more dignified chuckles, carefully hidden behind his hand- "but you need to eat lunch," he finished once they had calmed down enough to breathe normally again.

Kiku was next to launch into the 'take care of yourself' tirade. "Alfred, everyone at this table is well aware of how much your skating means to you, and how disappointed you would be were you not able to perform your best due to a lack of proper nutrients. Although I cannot blame you for your rejection of your father's preparation of tuna. It is a disgrace to the most noble of fish."

"But, um, guys, don't you think you need to eat your own lunches?"

"If you take a little bit from each one of ours, there'll be plenty to go around," Toris jumped in before Alfred could further protest. Cracking a smile, he added, "Plus, my _Mociute _is staying with us for a while. You could eat half my lunch and there'd be enough left over to feed everyone else at this damn table."

And so Alfred indulged them. Had he bothered looking over his shoulder, he would have noticed Ivan watching them a few tables over as he laughed at Felix's animated jokes and let Chelle feed him scallop chutney as Kiku entertained them with stories of Yao's complete inability to control their (rather large) family. Instead, he let himself be immersed in conversation until he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

"You wanted to do some of the talking?"

The cordial tone didn't fool him. The invitation was as frosty as the cafeteria windows, and about as pleasant. Still, he did want to "talk" to Ivan, someplace without any witnesses. Certainly not the cafeteria, where staff members were bountiful.

"Yeah, I did. Braginski, let's go outside." Kiku grimaced in distaste, and Toris and Felix both shot him looks, eyebrows drawn tight together, and Felix nibbled mincingly on his nails (or, at least, doing a very good job of miming it. Alfred knew Felix was too vain to actually ruin his manicure). None of his friends were stupid, and they were familiar enough with social cues to know what 'outside' meant. Still, they knew how Alfred settled quarrels-the same way that the football team, and the lacrosse team, and the hockey team, and even the basketball team settled quarrels. Only Chelle latched onto his elbow.

"Alfred, I swear to God, if you get out of this chair and go deal with him the way I _think_ you're about to deal with him, I will kill you. And then I will borrow your dad's old 'Magyck and Alchemy' book-"

"That's for decoration only!" Alfred interjected, which she promptly ignored.

"-resurrect you, and let Matt, your dads, and your coaches kill you all over again. Don't be _stupid._"

"Jesus, Chelle, chill out. We're gonna just have a little talk outside."

"Alfred Francis Williams-Jones. If you honestly think I'm stupid enough to think you're only going to 'talk' to one another outside, you're even dumber than Mr. Wang thinks you are, and I damn well will not '_chill out!'"_

"Ouch. That was, like, a low blow, Chelle."

"_Don't call me Chelle! _What makes you think he won't go to Mr. Adnan and say, 'Hey, look, Alfred beat me up?' Do you _want _to get suspended? Expelled? Ooh, ooh, I know! How about _disqualified from the Olympics? _How about _unable to compete in the dream I've been working towards since I was four years old? _How about _kicked out of my career before I even turn eighteen? _But if you want to, go right ahead, Alfred. Throw away everything you've been working towards, all the money Arthur spends paying for your lessons, all the time Francis spends making your costumes. Throw away whatever you damn well please." And with that she stalked off towards the library.

Ivan was still waiting, already walking towards the doors. His friends looked like they also wanted to voice several objections, but none of them said anything. Their eyes were giving him a warning, though._ Don't get caught. _

He followed Ivan out of the back doors of the caf into the crisp autumn air, and drew his bomber jacket a little tighter around himself. His sneakers crunched on the dead leaves that gathered on the footpath that cut to the athletic fields. Somehow the sound reminded him of stepping on the bones of small animals, each step releasing the scent of rotten plants and bonfire smoke. The smell of something dying. Of something already dead.

They walked in silence for a while, Alfred following Ivan a few steps behind. He didn't trust the bastard enough to turn his back to him. They reached the cluster of trees that is just out of visibility for the school, and Ivan wasted no time in ducking under the empty branches and turning to face Alfred, who stood there, fists balled and shifting from foot to foot.

"What is wrong, Jones? You wished to be having the talk with me. Now I am here to be talking to you. Speak."

"First of all, it's Williams-Jones to you. Secondly, like hell you tell me what to do."

Ivan frowned in mock puzzlement. "It was your idea to be walking here."

"Whatever, dude. The point is, you don't fucking tell me when to talk and when not to talk."

"Alright, then, Williams-Jones. You will be talking whenever you feel good and ready," he replied, eyebrow lifted in false anticipation.

Alfred's chest puffed outwards. "You smarmy little fucktard. I don't know what the hell your deal is with me, but you leave your pathetic little twisted problem with my _dads_ out of it. In fact, Braginski, just stay away from my whole damn family, understood?"

Ivan blinked once, and then did something-perhaps the only thing-that Alfred was not expecting. He laughed. Not his usual creepy little giggle, the one he used while he tossed people left and right on the ice, an honest-to-God laugh. Alfred did not appreciate being mocked, and swung his fist towards Ivan's face. It smacked into Ivan's hand just inches from his jaw. The taller boy was wincing (as he should be-it wasn't a gentle hit) but he had stopped Alfred's punch. He had _stopped _Alfred's _punch. _Alfred had never met anyone even close to being how strong he was. Not even Mattie, for all that they were twins. He guessed from Ivan's still-pained expression that he was still the stronger of the two, but he'd never met anyone who could stop one of his punches before. Ivan rubbed his palm as he started at Alfred, who was still panting.

"I will be letting you get away with that one," he said, voice soft and dangerous. "I will not be so forgiving the next time that is happening. I am fearful that we have arrived at a grave misunderstanding. You think I am hating you because of your fathers?"

Alfred nodded once.

"That would be most hypocritical of me, da?" Ivan replied with a slight smile and-did Alfred just see him wink? He prayed that was a figment of his imagination. "Silly, silly Alfred. I am not detesting you because of your fathers. I am loathing you because you are a skater."

"But why-"

"Why are you bothering to be asking?"

And Alfred's brain blew a fuse. He'd been trying to get Ivan to confess his diabolical plan-otherwise known as the guy's petty problem with his family, but whatever, specifics were overrated-for the better part of ten minutes. Sometimes fists solved more fights than words.

And so he lunged at Ivan again. This time, the Russian seemed to be expecting it, and sidestepped his fist, then countered with one of his own. Alfred slid low into the dirt, then readied a left hook to strike for the groin area. But damn, Ivan had good reflexes. He'd leapt nearly a foot backward to avoid the hit. Probably a good thing for him, too, if he'd ever planned on having sex. Not that Alfred could think of anyone who would be willing to have sex with Ivan.

He straightened, shifting slightly from foot to foot as he tried to gage where Ivan's blow would land. Ivan leaned in left, and Alfred almost fell for it, had he not seen Ivan's fist fast approaching from the right in his peripheral vision. Instead, he reached out and latched on to Ivan's elbow, simultaneously hitting Ivan in the jaw. He was right handed, so the punch understandably had less impact than he desired, but it was still enough to send Ivan stumbling back a few feet. He spat in his general direction, heart still thrumming like a hummingbird's wings. To his horror, Ivan actually _laughed_ as he regained his footing, although he was noticeably rubbing his jaw and more than somewhat unsteady on his feet.

"Silly, sweet, stupid Alfred. You are unaware of who I am, are you not?"

Ivan reached over and patted him on the head before strolling off out of the trees. Alfred thought about following after him and making the other boy finish the fight, but once he was out of those trees, anyone in the school could see him. Suspension, as Mattie was always reminding him, was a Bad Thing. So instead, Alfred stomped back off towards the school. He dug in his back pocket for his phone, the copper-and-salt taste of sweat, blood, and adrenaline lingering on his lips. Waving the phone left and right to try and find the best signal pocket on campus, he pulled up the Google search bar and typed in "Ivan Braginski." Thousands, if not millions of results, and most of them Facebook profiles of middle aged men. Certainly not what he wanted. He tried again, this time typing in "Ivan Braginski Russia." Similarly unhelpful results, although this time Google came up with a suggestion for him: Did you mean "Ivan **_Braginsky _**Russia?" Figuring it was worth a try, he clicked on it. And the page flooded with Ivan.

Not just any Ivan-the right Ivan. _His _Ivan. A Wikipedia article, a Wikia article, a link to something called the Bolshoi company, and hundreds of thousands of images. Curious, he clicked on the "Image" bar at the top and patiently waited for them to load. Most of them were of a younger-looking Ivan posing for headshots or smiling awkwardly at a microphone while plastic looking blonde women with their mouths open, probably asking him questions, stood next to him. Two lines of images down, though, he found what he was looking for. A black-and-white photo of Ivan, probably about fourteen or fifteen, clad in nothing but a pair of tights as he leapt into the air in a split. He must have been at least three feet off of the ground. The source for the image was listed as the 'Bolshoi Ballet Company.'

Alfred felt cold at his realization. Ivan was a ballet dancer. Not just any ballet dancer, but apparently a successful, famous one. And from the thousands of results, a popular one in Russia, ballet capital of the world.

_So why is he playing hockey? And why is he here, in the States?_

_Notes: The "Braginski" vs "Braginsky" thing comes from the Polish/Russian last name variants. The -ski ending is Polish and the -sky ending is Russian. However, a lot of Russian immigrants changed the ending of their name to match that of their Polish counterparts when they emigrated to America, hoping that after WWII/during the Cold War, they'd be more welcomed._


	4. Firebird

Alfred launched himself into the final minute of his routine. This was the most important part-he wanted to wow the judges with a strong finish and win the extra points for having jumps in the second part of his long program. Unfortunately, his earlier fight with Ivan and his Google search results were significantly cutting into the quality of his performance, and after the third run through, Ludwig called him over.

"Jones. That was the sloppiest performance I've seen from you in the last year. Explain."

Alfred grimaced. "Nerves, I guess. About the trials and everything, you know?"

"Jones, I've been training you personally since you were six-"

"Shouldn't it be time you start calling me Alfred, then?" he deadpanned.

"Don't interrupt. I've never known you to get cold feet, you're too damn talented and a little too cocky for your own good."

"Leon's coming for his week with us early."

"Ah." Ludwig looked like he'd accidentally stepped on a viper. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, you-"

"Ve! Alfred, Ludwig!" The shout came from the other end of the rink, where a small, brown haired figure stood waving excitedly. It was moving towards them at an frighteningly rapid pace, carrying in his arms an exorbitant amount of brightly coloured material, and for a moment Alfred feared a collision before he skidded to a stop.

"Ludwig, Ludwig! Alfred! Francis and I finished working on the artistic concept for your costume!" Here he shook out the multitude of fabric, and for a moment Alfred just stared.

"Ah, Feli, no offence to you or Francis-because God knows you can do more with fabric than I can-but what exactly is it?"

"A firebird, of course!" Feliciano beamed as he said it.

"Okay, but that really creates more questions than it answers."

"Well, the choreography that I did with the arms reminded me a lot of wings, so I thought we'd go all the way and make you a bird! What do you think? Will you try it on?" Alfred normally adored Feli, but sometimes he could be a bit….much. Like right now, for instance. Right now, Feli, among other things, was giving him a very large headache. But if he said no, Feli would cry. And if he cried, Ludwig would be angry. And if Ludwig was angry, then he would be put through a training session from hell, which he really wanted to avoid right now. So all he did was hold out his arms, waiting for his inevitable demise via fabric, and headed off into the locker rooms.

Actually, he had to admit, the costume didn't look that bad. He'd been expecting the worst-chicken that had been accidentally lit on fire, bright and garish and horrible. He wouldn't deny that the costume was still as bright as the sun, nor would he deny that it is spectacularly over the top, but it was bizarrely flattering for all that. He was swathed in layers and layers of gossamer silk. The petals of translucent fabric were all exactly one hue apart, layered lighter and lighter, fading from crimson and scarlet to sunset orange and finally to bright blazing gold. The combination of layered fabric and the colours gave him the illusion that he is made of feathers-and indeed, the huge half-cape that is truly made of feathers is what made the piece stand out. The wings were trimmed with rhinestones, just enough to make them sparkle under the performance lights. Alfred thought it was a little gaudy, but then again, all skating costumes were. And when he emerged from the locker room to show Ludwig and Feli, they both look at him with approval.

He pivoted this way and that as Feliciano touched the fabric here and there, making notes to adjust this or that, and murmured to Ludwig that they are going to paint his face and maybe his hair, too, to complete the illusion. He nodded in understanding, and his coaches gestured for him to take the ice again. Gritting his teeth, he tightened the laces on his skates for a final time and began. Perhaps it was the costume that made him feel as light as air, or perhaps it was just the rush of being able to skate again instead of being stuck with pins over and over. Either way, it was certainly the best run through he'd had all day.

Ludwig had no complaints about the technical performance of it, aside from a pointer on a turn or a transition here or there, but Feli is far from happy.

"You are a _bird_," he said in exasperation for what felt like the three hundred and forty-seventh time. In reality, it was only the twenty-first, but Alfred insists on counting the echoes of the little Italian's voice booming around in his head. "Perhaps you could try and act like one. A little _lightness_, if you will. Try holding that extension around the back corner again, I want you to extend your left arm…"

And so Alfred indulged him and ran the routine thrice more. It was a little after nine before they let him go home, and he was just heading out the door when he remembered the other thing he was supposed to do.

"Hey! Ludwig!"

The coach looked up from his notes reluctantly, vastly irritated that Alfred has not even left the building before causing more disruption.

"My teacher, Mr. Edelstein, said he knows you, yeah?"

"Roderich? You know Roderich?"

"Mm-hm. Anyway, he has a message for you. Said he and Elizaveta pass on their love to Gilbert. You know, if I've gotta talk to your friends for you, that's pretty sad. Maybe you ought to invite them to dinner sometime soon or something."

And he made a hasty exit. Papa and Dad both offered to pick him up, but he reassured him he'd be fine walking home. It was late, which made them nervous, but the rink wasn't far from his house. He could handle it. There was already a thin layer of frost on the ground, and he grinned at the prospect of the cold weeks ahead. Maybe the pond would freeze over, and he and Mattie could skate there.

He turned off of Walnut onto Mill and stopped in his tracks upon spotting a lone figure at the end of the corner. He felt his heart pounding against his ribcage, the air too thick as he shrunk back into the shadows. Something hot and heavy in his mind screamed for him to go on, he's strong and fast, he can take this attacker. Something far more crystalline and logical told him to run, because that figure at the end of the street probably has a knife or a gun or maybe both, and he should leave now.

The figure turned, and for a split second Alfred thought he'd been seen-his heart stuttered like it had considered stopping, but then caught itself as the figure's eyes glaze right over him. It was definitely a man, and Alfred's throat muscles were trying to work in his sandpaper mouth. He felt his phone buzz in his back pocket and thanked God that he'd left it on silent today. A shaft of light from a parting in the clouds caught the wisp of ice blonde hair and a broad face with a prominent nose, and Alfred's heart did the strange little skipping thing again even as he let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The solitary figure at the end of the street is Ivan, and although Alfred wouldn't be so crass as to pretend that he was fond of that particular schoolmate, for the moment he was relieved. Ivan, only Ivan. He felt his phone buzz again. This brought him back down to earth for good this time and his fire roared red once more, ready to lunge out, fist his hands in Ivan's shirt and demand explanations and answers and a fight. But Ivan tilted his head and then glided back into the shadows, unaware that he had been seen there in the moonlight for one vulnerable moment, and Alfred let the raging scarlet ebb out of his fingertips.

By the time he got home, there was already a small suitcase set resting in the entry hall to their house and the sound of scraping chairs and cutlery was emerging from the back room.

"I'm HOME!" he bellowed as a greeting to his family, and a small, dark-haired head immediately appeared from the doorway.

"Al!" the newcomer shouted, and rushed over to ruffle his younger sibling's hair. The effect was rather ruined by the fact that Alfred had to duck down in order for Leon to reach his head, even on tiptoe. Francis interrupted the moment by sticking his head out the door to the dining room and telling Alfred to _please_ come in, the dinner's getting cold. Stomach growling, he concedes.

Leon followed him back through the double doors into the dining room, and Alfred froze in his tracks, wondering if it was too late to back out of the doors and run straight out into the street. Their dining room, seldom used because they hardly ever had time to have a formal sit down dinner, had been set with two extra places. There was Arthur at the head of the table, Francis on his left and Matthew on his right. An empty place had been left for Alfred next to his twin, and a half eaten plate of food indicated where Leon had been sitting. And at the other head of the table sat Mr. Wang. Alfred almost wished he'd taken his chances and picked another fight with Ivan. Left without a route of escape, he gingerly took his seat opposite Leon and tried to avoid eye contact. Great. The Dinner Party of Doom. When did the executions for the entertainment of the masses begin? And for you betting men and women, whose head would be rolling first?

The first few minutes were filled with nothing but the wet sounds of chewing and the chink of cutlery against porcelain. He bumps arms more than once or twice with someone reaching for a dish or cutting his chicken, and the apologies ar mumbled and elbows tucked in twice as tight in hope of avoiding the mistake again. The scents of Francis's kitchen might be wonderful, but the conversation was far from it, mostly because it was entirely non-existent. Alfred helped himself to a second portion of chicken and scalloped potatoes, and Mr. Wang snorted. Arthur's grip on his fork tightened enough to whiten the skin around his knuckles and Mr. Wang said nothing more, although he chewed the inside of his cheek when Alfred took a third portion. Leon attempted to diffuse the tension by drawing everyone's gaze away from-well, everyone else-by instead calling attention to something safely neutral and innocuous, like the frescos.

"Mr. Kirkland-Bonnefoy, I love what you've done with the dining room. It's spectacular."

"Please, Leon-" at Mr. Wang's outraged expression and little cry of disgust, he hurriedly self-corrected-"Lei Su, call me Francis. And I'm glad you like it, I decided I wanted something very Art Nouveau; you know, it's based off of the Wisteria dining room, which is extraordinary because…"

Alfred felt the atmosphere in the room fade away. Francis could talk about art for hours, and the decoration in the dining room is a safe, neutral topic. Matthew, even though Lord knew he'd heard the explanation of the Art Nouveau trend a thousand times, forced a smile on his face, and Arthur was making a valiant effort to look like he was paying attention.

All was peaceful for exactly three minutes and forty-seven seconds, when Alfred reached for another helping of food and Mr. Wang made the same little sound of contempt. Arthur had had enough, it seemed, and slammed his cutlery down on the table with an almighty bang.

"What _exactly_ is your problem?" he hissed.

"My _problem_, as you have so eloquently put it, is that your son is a selfish glutton," Mr. Wang retorted as Alfred's cheeks were stained the colour of red wine with shame.

Francis consequently raised his voice, hoping to cut off the argument before it really started. "You know, it was a novel concept, designing the room as a whole set-"

"A _glutton_!" exclaimed Arthur, ignoring Francis while simultaneously raising his own voice. "He needs extra food for training!"

"Oh, yes, training this and training that. Did your son tell you he fell asleep in class today because of this training?"

"You fell asleep in CLASS?"

"-and really, the dining room should be the centre of an-"

"-for, like, TWO minutes, it's not even a big deal-"

"-oh, and that's not even COUNTING the disrespect he shows his teachers-"

"DISRESPECT? LIKE _HELL_ ANY SON OF MINE SHOWS DISRESPECT, I TAUGHT THEM BETTER THAN THAT-"

"Dad, calm down-"

"AND REALLY, THE CARVINGS ON THE LAMPS-"

"_PLEASE_, YOUR SONS WERE _BORN_ KNOWING DISRESPECT, BECAUSE THEY HAD A FAILURE LIKE _YOU_ FOR A FATHER-"

"Arthur, perhaps now is NOT THE TIME-"

"THIS ISN'T HELPING-"

"A FAILURE? I'LL SHOW YOU _FAILURE_-"

"YES, A FAILURE WHO CAN'T DISCIPLINE HIS CHILDREN, WHO ABANDONED HIS FIRST FAMILY, AND WHO _FORGETS ABOUT HIS OTHER SON BECAUSE ONE OF THEM HAS DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR ABOUT BEING AN OLYMPIAN!"_

"GET _OUT_, GET OUT OF MY _HOUSE_ YOU FUCKING _SLAG_-" and the rest of Arthur's sentence was swallowed by what sounded like a dry, choking sob. "Like I would-like I would _ever_-"

Matthew stared at Mr. Wang with such reproach that the older man quaked a little bit. Francis looked from one member of the family to the next, as if unable to comprehend how dinner had devolved into such a disaster. Leon was resolutely staring at his plate, unable to look father or either half-brother in the eye. And Alfred-Alfred was very quietly trying not to die with the feeling that he had caused all of the trouble in the first place. Mr. Wang, at last, seemed to take the hint and stood. With as much dignity as he could muster, he threw his napkin down on the table with palpable disgust.

"Lei Su, have a good week," he said, and strode out of the room.

Leon sighed and looked over at Arthur, who currently had his head buried in his hands.

"Go," Arthur said, waving at him. "I can't stop you from saying goodbye."

Leon, too, hurried out of the dining room. Francis put his arm about Arthur, Matthew talking in nonsensical words in a hope to calm him. Alfred decided that now would be an excellent time to go to the bathroom, and excused himself. Funny how even muffled by carpet, his footsteps seemed to have an echo. An echo that was increasingly getting drowned out by human voices. Curious, he lingered in the doorframe to the sitting room, perhaps hoping to catch Mr. Wang making another snarky comment about his father so he could jump in and defend Arthur. Like Arthur had done for him.

Instead, the sight both surprised and touched him. Mr. Wang, for all that he is much taller than his son, is leaned forward so that all of his weight falls forward, head resting on Leon's shoulder for support. His eyes clenched tight shut, a man crying and pretending he is not. Alfred didn't understand the words that were being said, but he understood their meaning. I will miss you. I love you. I wish we didn't have to do this.

He backed away, all the fight gone out of him, replaced instead with a feeling that he had seen something that he had no right to. He slipped into the bathroom, letting the door click shut on his intrusion.


	5. Fester

A/N: So I would like to apologise for being an asshole and vanishing for so long. I've been really busy lately, college apps and classes and standardised tests, yay! Hope you guys are having a good fall and are excited for sweater weather-huge thanks again to my beta Espresso_Yourself, without whom my tenses would be a mess and this plot would be impossibly confusing. Happy Writing!

Alfred dreamt fitfully of Ivan that night, standing in the frosty darkness. He felt someone put a hand against his forehead somewhere in between the world of sleeping and waking, and he pushed it away before falling back into that land of slumber.

The alarm blared predictably at 2:45. He groaned as he fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses, padding towards the bathroom. He didn't bother switching on the light, a decision he regretted when he splashed water on his face and missed more than he hit, leaving his hair sopping wet and the bathroom a mess. The bathroom can be someone else's problem, he decided, someone more responsible and less tired than he is. His hair, though, was dripping little splashes of water down his back, and he shivered at the cold tendrils on his spine. No matter. Private practice in fifteen minutes. Private practice in fifteen minutes, he chanted to himself, seemingly unaware that he is speaking aloud.

He knocked on his parent's bedroom door, and when there was no answer he let himself in.

"Papa?" he called. "Dad? I have to be at the rink in ten minutes."

To his surprise, it was not Arthur but Francis who rose from the bed. Francis is never-and never will be-a morning person, but this morning he looked particularly awful; he resembled something out of a horror movie marathon. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy with lack of sleep and his usually perfect hair was a matted mess.

"_Alfréd, je suis désolé, mais-_"

"Papa? You're doing the French thing again."

"Ah." Here his father let out an enormous yawn. "I'm sorry, Alfred, but we're going to have to go to the rink a little late this morning-I'll take you. Arthur is...not in a good place."

"Papa, I have to-"

"No buts."

"I didn't _say_ but, I said I have to," Alfred grumbled.

"Then no 'have to's. No one is happy after last night, and believe it or not, you need sleep."

"I need-"

"To sleep. I'll come in a little before four."

Alfred scowled, but he knows Francis would give up his wine cellar before he allowed either of his sons to push him around. Not that Mattie ever tried, but still. Heaving a sigh, he shuffled back to his room, stubbing his toe on the doorframe and trying not to curse too loudly. He thought he only woke Leon, judging by the sleepy mumbling emanating from the guest room, and he figured he'd apologise in the morning. The room was too dark for him to see much of anything, and he almost didn't realise he'd sat down on the wrong bed at all, until he leant back and felt a bony, warm lump beneath him. He let out a squeak (he would firmly deny it, later, of course) and stood to return to his own bed, mumbling apologies to Mattie all the way.

His heavy-sleeping brother, though, didn't even wake properly, instead choosing to resolve the problem by pulling Alfred down onto the mattress. So he found himself nestled in between Kumajiro and Matthew, and this time when he slept he did not dream. When Francis shook him awake, there was almost something like guilt written on his face, as though he did not want to wake him at all that morning. Indeed, once they pulled into the parking lot, both clutching cups of coffee for dear life, Francis turned and asked him if he was sure that he wanted to go to the rink.

"Alfred, taking one day off of training-"

"No."

Francis hesitates, like he wants to tell Alfred to stay in the car, but he waves him on.

"Go," he says, and Alfred would be a fool if he couldn't hear the hurt in his voice. "God knows you'll go crazy without your ice. Not that I don't think we're all a little crazy after the fiasco last night…"

Alfred would have tried to offer some kindness-a compensation, if you would-had he not realised it was useless. Francis had probably spent the rest of the night consoling a distraught and angry Arthur, an endeavour that probably required more alcohol than was healthy for the human body to consume.

"Stay in the car, Papa. I won't be mad."

"_Non_, Alfred, you know how much I love to watch your training-"

"Then you'll watch me at my normal practice. You look half dead."

And Francis, relieved, leant back into the seat and closed his eyes.

The rink was empty and silent, and Alfred appreciated this greatly. He wasn't as awake as he would like to be, even with an extra large coffee running through his veins and the cold nipping at his cheeks, but there was something so incredibly liberating about being on the ice again that he pushed it out of his mind and let go into the routine. He was just pulling out of his final spin, skate blade nearly touching his head, when he heard a voice from somewhere behind the bleachers.

"Impressive."

He prided himself on not falling over or even wobbling, but he did right himself rather more hurriedly than is graceful.

"Who's there? Dude, the rink is mine, my coaches booked it-"

"The rink is as much mine as it is yours."

Alfred's hands involuntarily balled into fists at the sound of that voice, although it didn't sound quite right and it made him uneasy.

"No, it isn't, because I _fucking booked it._"

Ivan emerged from the shadows beneath the bleachers, and he was smirking. He gestured wide, with an open palm.

"Go ahead," he said, voice entirely too cheerful at 4:30 something in the morning for it to be genuine. "I'm not stopping you from training, am I?"

"My routine is my business. Get. Out."

"Make me," he replied mockingly.

It is only then that it clicks. "You-that accent-"

"Ah, it seems little Alfred has finally figured it out."

"Why? What purpose could that possibly-"

"No one wants to be the one who upsets the poor little foreigner, do they? Oh, sure, you might get teased once or twice in school, but no teacher would ever dare to complain about you. That would be _racist, _and that would mean a black mark on their name forever."

"You lying little-"

"I am quite sure you do not want to finish that sentence, my darling Alfred."

"You were a dancer." It comes out as a statement, not a question. Ivan's grin widens; clearly this is what he has been provoking Alfred to say.

"You know who I am now."

"What's it to you? Why do you care that I skate-unless, of course, it's because you're jealous that I'm an Olympian and you're a has-been."

"I was a _god_ of ballet in _Russie_, Alfred. People worshipped the ground that I danced on because of my talent. No one here cares whether you succeed or not."

"If you were so great, why don't you just fuck off back to Russia already?"

"Not an option."

"Then keep your damn fat mouth shut about my skating."

"Ah, Alfred, always so _violent._ Always so _angry._"

"I'm angry because you're bitching and moaning about things that you couldn't do even if you tried. There's no ballet in the Olympics, or did I miss that announcement?"

When Ivan smiled, it showed some of his teeth, like a shark.

"Then prove it to me. Go ahead, show me all the things you can do that I can't. Show me how great you are."

So Alfred _flew. _He hadn't skated his long routine this well in-he didn't think he'd ever skated it this well. He even nailed that quad loop that had been giving him such trouble since he'd started the routine. He knew he was overreaching himself (and boy was he going to regret that when it came time for afternoon practice, especially on the amount of sleep he'd gotten) and he didn't give a damn. The routine ended with one final turn, and yet he couldn't quite bring himself to stop either. He kept going, improvising one turn after another, jumping, whirling, gliding.

It was only after his lungs begun to burn and tighten and his ankles to quake that he pulled himself into a final spin and finally stopped on center ice. For a moment there was only silence, silence and the soft silver whisper of his breath lingering in the air. He turned to Ivan, lingering at the boards.

"Well?" he asked, and started to skate towards the silent figure. His feet were screaming in pain-_too far, too far!_-and he latched on to the railing for support.

"You Americans all think overmuch of yourself," Ivan replied, and Alfred's mouth dropped open.

"How can you-_were you even fucking watching!?_"

"I should never underestimate your ability to condescend my intellect. Yes, I was watching."

"Oh, and I should never underestimate your ability to be an asshole about everything I do, is that it?"

"What is it that your beloved Founding Fathers used to say?"

"Shut your mouth, you godless commie, don't you drag the name of my country into this-"

"A country I do not wish to reside in? A country I was brought to forcibly? I see no reason why not."

"You damn-"

"Alfred, hasn't anyone ever told you that it's rude to interrupt? No, don't answer that, apparently your habit of sleeping through class has led the concept of rhetoric to be completely beyond the scope of your mind. As I was saying, I believe the Founding Fathers would have said 'We are apt to close our eyes to a painful truth,' yes? _Now _you may speak."

"You don't get to tell me when I get to speak!"

"No, but the rules of etiquette do. Unless you want to be rude, and we can't have that, can we?"

Alfred pressed his finger into Ivan's sternum.

"Fine. Fine. You know what, Braginsky? You want to hear the painful truth that _you're _closing _your _eyes to? Your career is _over_, and I have my whole life of skating ahead of me. You washed up and burnt out at fourteen. How does that truth feel, then?"

Ivan leaned in closer until their foreheads were pressed against one another, almost nose to nose.

"I, at least, had a career to speak of in the first place. Yours has not even begun yet," he whispered.

"I haven't won four Junior Olympic Gold medals for nothing, you know. They call me the Golden Wonder, probably going to be the youngest men's figure skating medalist ever."

"Pft. A Junior medal means only that you are too weak, too afraid to compete with those who might be-are-better than you. I was dancing with the Bolshoi ballet company from the time that I was nine."

"You were a _ballet dancer, _not an Olympian_._"

"At least I was an _artist, _not some blind puppet following the demands of my parents and my coaches."

"I am _nobody's _puppet!"

"Alfred!" this voice came from the back corner of the rink. Pulling away from Ivan, eyes still sparking, he looked back at the figure lingering by the electric box, the lights over the bleachers and shut-up food stands flickering on. Mattie. Great.

"Al, what the hell are you still doing here? Your ice time ended ten minutes ago! Never mind, Papa and Dad are waiting out in the car, they have your breakfast, you left it on the counter. You have got to start remembering these things, Al...also, Ivan, why the hell are you here? It's Al's-you know what, it is too early to deal with this shit. Just go put your pads on."

Ivan shrugged-he knew better than to piss off his co-captain when there was hockey on the line-and departed for the locker room. Alfred swung one leg and then the other over the boards. When his blades slammed into the rubber padding, his legs buckled and nearly crumpled underneath him.

"Al!" Matthew shouted, and hurried over to where he stood. Looping one arm over his brother's shoulders, Alfred hobbled over to the bleachers, face flushed fever pink from the pain. When he eased his skates off, Mattie looked like he was about to faint. They'd both had skate blistering before, but never any quite so bloody. His tights were ruined, and his skates would probably reek even worse now. Festering sweat was bad enough on its own, he couldn't imagine the addition of blood improving it much.

"Oh, Al-" Mattie sighed, and Alfred couldn't tell if he was more sympathetic or exasperated. Hearing the hockey team approaching from the locker room, he waved his brother away.

"Go," he muttered. "You have practice, and I want to get at least two hours of fucking sleep before school. They're just blisters, Mattie."

Matthew left without further argument, though his eyes said that there was more to Al's injury than a pair of blistered feet, and Alfred hobbled barefoot out to the car. He was probably going to catch hypothermia and his toes would turn black and fall off, and then he would never be able to skate ever again. He didn't care. Right now the snow was fresh and cold and soothing, and he sure as hell was not wearing his boots. When he collapsed into the backseat, both of his fathers looked downright peeved at him.

"Alfred, you idiot, where have you _been_? Your ice time ended _fifteen_ minutes ago, you're walking _barefoot_ in the _snow-_" Alfred took Arthur's long, angry breath as an opportunity to point out that he was well aware he had been walking in the snow, he was the one who had been walking in it, after all.

"Alfred Francis Jones, I have had-"

"Darling, _cher_, would you let me handle this, please?"

Arthur gave a huff in response, and Francis took this as agreement. Turning around to face his son, he started the conversation anew.

"Alfred Francis Jones, I have had-"

Alfred stuck his feet up on the divider between the two front seats and watched as their faces froze in horror, eyebrows knitted together. Arthur shakily extended a hand to hover about half an inch away from his foot, afraid to touch it and afraid to do nothing in case it hurt his son either way.

"Alfred?"

Alfred turned his head to stare at the frosted windowpane and refused to meet his fathers' eyes. Arthur opened his mouth and promptly closed it again. Alfred permitted himself a little internal smirk. Nearly fourteen years he'd been trying to get his father to shut up, and apparently all he needed to do was come home from the rink with bleeding feet. He imagined it would have saved a lot of time if he'd discovered this earlier.

"_Alfréd_, we are going home. You need some bandages, I need a coffee, and Arthur needs a drink. And we _all _need to have a discussion."

"Papa, I know, I know I'm a fucking idiot-"

"Alfred, don't use-"

"He gets it from you," Francis muttered in return, which made his husband scowl.

"Dad, Papa, we-"

"Alfred, we aren't mad at you. We're just going home to get you what you need and talk for a bit."

"We'll wake Leon."

"Leon is already awake doing God knows what, probably plotting the demise of this entire town via firecracker-_no, _Alfred. Arthur, why do all of your children have such an _affinité_ for fire and exploding things?"

"I don't know, why do all of your children enjoy going to ice rinks at all hours of the morning and coming home with injuries?"

Alfred took this moment of distraction as an opportunity to phone Leon and be the sensible adult in the car, despite the fact that there were two legal ones actually present. Leon picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, Bonnefoy-Kirkland residence," he answered.

"You are concerningly awake for this hour of the morning," Alfred replied.

"I have school too, I am sure you are aware."

"And if I didn't have to be at skating practice, I would be asleep."

"Some people have things to plan."

"Anyway, I was wondering if you could bring the usual over?"

"Disaster or celebration?"

"Um, first aid?"

"Exactly how much havoc have you two wreaked that something called the 'disaster kit' is considered 'the usual'?"

"Dad, I know you don't want the answer to that question. Leon, we're parked outside the rink."

" 'K. I'll be there in a few."

Leon's definition of a few minutes seemed to significantly differ from that of his parents, given that a what was usually a ten minute drive was shortened to three. He didn't even quail under the appalled stares of Francis and Arthur, despite the fact that the latter possessed a stare so fearsome even Ludwig had quaked in his boots when he had kept Alfred for training past eleven and Arthur had stormed in and threatened to murder him if he didn't let Alfred go home _right now. _

"What?" he asked with a shrug. "There won't be any cops out until seven at least."

"You thought _that _was our problem!?" spluttered Arthur.

Leon chose not to dignify that with a response and instead turned to Alfred's feet with an expression that indicated that he would very much like to go and bury his head in the snow. Knowing Alfred wasn't likely to give him the details with Arthur and Francis still present, he instead set to wrapping his brother's feet in layers of gauze and Neosporin, Alfred hissing and wincing all the way. After a minute or two, Arthur rummaged around in the glove compartment and surfaced with a lollipop.

"Here," he muttered, and shoved it into Alfred's hands. "Maybe that will shut you up, you big baby."

"M not a baby," Alfred mumbled around a mouthful of processed sugar, but there was mercifully little sulking in the car after that. One by one they dozed off against the frosted windowpanes, woken only when Matthew came jogging out from the rink and started hammering on the windows.

"Guys! Guys, let me in! Open up, my hair is freezing-oh, hello Leon-took you long enough!"

"Some of us were sleeping," retorted Alfred in his best Arthur voice with a sly grin.

"Yes, indeed, some of us were indeed enjoying the pleasantry of drifting upon sweet clouds of slumber, wafting by on breezes to the Land of Nod…"

"Indeed, verily, I say! Ergo!"

"Oh, the lot of you can bugger off," Arthur replied, and turned to pout at the window. Francis leaned over and caught his jaw with his thumb.

"My darling, long-suffering husband, will you forgive me if I promise to take you to that fancy tea shop you are so fond of after we drop the kids off at school?"

"Maybe."

"How about if I buy you the Assam _and _the Silver Needle?"

"Better," Arthur said with a smile, and leaned in for a kiss.

"Get a room, you two!" Alfred and Leon shouted in unison, and Matthew pelted them with the little crumbs that were all that remained of his protein bar. Francis pecked his lover lightly on the lips and gave a short breathy laugh.

"What do you say we drop these ingrates off at school and then go for tea?"

"Sounds like a marvelously intelligent idea. If you give it a few years, you may even catch up to me."

And so with Francis clutching dramatically at his heart, pretending to be offended, and the three kids laughing all the way, they'd set off for the main building.

Thick socks and plenty of bandaging, however, could only do so much for his feet, as Alfred was quick to discover. Especially when stairs were a factor. He groaned as he and Kiku (the only person Alfred knew outside his family who showed up to school so early) finally finished the flight of stairs to the second floor for literature.

"Can we take a break?" he asked Kiku, who nodded in response.

"Thanks, man," Alfred said, and leant back against the wall. He tipped his head back, and let it land against the plaster with a dull thunk. Today was going to be hell on so many levels. Leon had kept kicking him in the car as he moved around, so his sleep situation was hardly improved since practice had ended. He was pretty sure he could feel a fresh wave of blood and blister fluid seeping into his bandages; although not as painful as walking, it certainly wasn't pleasant. Oh, and Ivan. Couldn't forget Ivan, whose sole mission in life seemed to be pissing him off.

This self-pitying reverie was cut off by rapidly approaching footsteps and loud squealing. He blearily opened one eye to see Feliks rapidly approaching, skidding slightly on the tiles as he attempted stopping.

"So, Alfred,-hi Kiku-I heard from Toris, who heard from Eduard, who heard from Raivis, who heard from Ivan that there was like, totally shit going down at the rink today!"

Kiku had to turn his head to the side so Feliks wouldn't see him laughing.

"Raivis has a big mouth," Alfred retorted.

"Ooooooh, something _did _happen!" Feliks squealed.

"I mean, not-it wasn't exactly like that-" he was promptly cut off by the arrival of a very out-of-breath Toris.

"I have no idea," he gasped, bent over at the waist, "how in the world you can run that fast when you need to confirm gossip and yet get out of gym class _every damn day._"

"I only run when there's something important to run to!" Feliks replied tartly, folding his arms for emphasis. "And hearing whether or not Alfred and Ivan had another fight is far more important than some sweaty gym teacher blowing a whistle at me."

"Once you got out of gym class because of _period cramps_!"

"Toris, to be fair, have you seen how he's dressed today?" Alfred pointed out, gesturing emphatically at Feliks's skirt and sweater ensemble. "No offense, Feliks."

"None taken. Anyway, don't change the subject, Toris. Or you, Alfred, I want to hear, like, _everything _about the massive fight you guys had." To Feliks's credit, he didn't look quite so eager for gossip now, eyebrows drawn together in a deep V.

"There was no-" Alfred had to take a deep breath as he took his weight off of the wall to fall into step beside his friends. "There was no fight," he continued. "I went to the rink for private practice, Ivan was there, we argued, Mattie and the hockey team showed up, I left. That's it."

"Oh, really? Then why are you limping?"

"Because I have blisters on my feet."

"And why do you have blisters on your feet, Alfred?" Kiku asked with an expression that was entirely too neutral to be wholly innocent. "And why is there a giant bruise on Ivan Braginsky's face? And why are you so tired that you look like an extra in some vampire chick flick?"

"Guys!" Alfred snapped. "Back off! Just back off, okay!" He really needed to sit down, his feet were screaming in pain. "I don't want to talk about practice, I don't want to talk about my family, and I sure as _hell _don't want to talk about Ivan!"

Feliks, always unable to keep his mouth shut when it mattered, answered, "I don't think we asked about your family." Words failed Alfred, so he just growled at his little gaggle of friends and stormed into the literature classroom alone, very pointedly sitting at a table right in the back. He dared anyone to sit with him.

His friends were, of course, just moments behind him, which rather ruined the effect of his dramatic entrance. One look at the expression on his face, though-Arthur had taught him well-and they wisely chose to sit at their usual table instead. Even Chelle, who looked like she was having a crappy day herself given her untied shoelaces and inside-out hoodie, stayed away.

Mr. Edelstein looked somewhat alarmed at the usually-genial Alfred sitting by himself and scowling like Mr. Karpusi when Mr. Adnan tried to get him to teach something other than the history of Ancient Greece, but didn't press the issue. Evidently it was more important to start putting the notes for today's lesson up on the whiteboard. Ivan strolled into class moments before the bell rang, smiling like he'd just been given a free puppy. Alfred wore a decidedly more furious expression as Ivan carefully surveyed the empty seats in the room and decided that the ideal place to sit was at Alfred's table cluster. Mr. Edelstein looked like perhaps it was time for an intervention. Indeed, if he wanted his classroom and everything in it, including the students, to remain in one piece, it probably was.

"Mr. Braginsky, perhaps it would be better if you were to sit somewhere else?"

"But why are you wanting that of me, Mr. Edelstein?"

"Well, it looks like Alfred is not particularly desirous of your company-or, indeed, of anyone's company-this morning."

"Surely you are not doing the suggesting that I am not wanted?"

"What? No, Mr. Braginsky, you misunderstand."

"I am not believing that I am."

"Mr. Braginsky, I do not appreciate being interrupted, or told what to do."

"But Mr. Edelstein, I cannot be imagining why Alfred is not wanting my presence. I have done nothing badly to him…"

"Mr. Braginsky, I rather think you are missing the point."

"The only reason I can be thinking of is that Alfred does not think my English is good enough-that _I_ am not good enough-to sit with."

Mr. Edelstein sent a pleading look to Alfred, who grunted and shrugged his shoulders in response. If possible, Ivan's smile grew wider, and a little bit more evil looking.

"I thought you would be agreeing with me," he said. Mr. Edelstein gave him a long look, and then turned back to the board to finish his meticulously ordered bullet points. "Yesterday, we talked about themes and motifs in Dorian Grey. Can anyone tell me what you think their character motivations were?"

"Anger," Alfred blurted before he could even think about what is leaving his mouth. "I think Basil drove Dorian to do what he did out of anger. And Dorian was tired of being treated like he wasn't good enough."

"I disagree," Ivan replied, and there was a collective silence in the room. Feliks's eyes were as wide as saucers, probably wishing he had his video camera with him, because this promised to be better train-wreck-watching entertainment than anything on Project Runway _or _a hockey game. "I think Dorian was deserving exactly how he was treated. He acted like child, and when Mr. Basil grew tired of him, he was becoming angry. He had not a right."

"You think Dorian deserved to be treated like that?" Alfred asked, incredulous. "You think he wanted to be treated like he was this tiny, fragile thing his whole life? It doesn't matter if it was Basil or the Lord-they still just thought of him as a thing, regardless of what he accomplished."

"What had Dorian been accomplishing?" Ivan asked in mock confusion. "Perhaps I am making the mistake, but his only accomplishment was the looking pretty."

"You think that's all he wanted to do with his life? Look pretty? Maybe he would have been able to prove he was capable of more if Basil had ever just _opened his eyes and seen it._"

"Maybe Basil was doing the thinking that Dorian could be much better, and Dorian never proved himself."

"Excellent classroom discussion!" Mr. Edelstein cut in, because Ivan and Alfred were already both rising out of their chairs, and the last thing he needed the year before he was going to get tenure was a fistfight in the classroom. "Disagreements over what is written in the text often help to deepen our understanding. How about each of you write me an essay-say, a thousand words-on your point of view about the relationship between Basil and Dorian. Due by Friday."

"Mr. Edelstein!" Alfred attempted to protest.

"Be careful, Mr. Jones, or I'll make it due Thursday instead."

Defeated, Alfred slumped back into his seat. Mr. Edelstein, to his credit, wrote down both 'anger' and 'childish' on the board before turning back to the still dead-silent classroom.

"Anyone else?" he asked. Feliks, in a desperate attempt to break the tension, raised his hand. "Yes, Mr.-Mr.-I'm sorry, could you say your name for me _one_ last time?"

Feliks giggled. "It's not _that _hard," he replied. "And I've already told you that Feliks is fine."

Mr. Edelstein sighed. "And I've already told you that I think students in this facility deserve more respect than an informal, first-name basis. I don't like it when my students are infantalised. Either you are mature enough to be held to adult expectations, or you are not. None of this grey area, where I can call you by your first names and you cannot call me by mine, or where you are expected to have an adult's workload but they are still censoring and banning books from the curriculum because you might think too much, or where some of you are old enough to drive, and smoke, and get shot at, but you cannot drink." He pinched the bridge of his nose just below where his glasses rested. "Excuse me. That was rather too opinionated for the classroom, and I should not have shared it with you. It was not professional."

Feliks, ever the tension breaker, soldiered on. "You like classical music, right, Mr. Edelstein?" The teacher frowned, uncertain where this line of questioning was going. "Why don't you, like, call me Mr. Chopin? He was Polish."

Mr. Edelstein couldn't resist a shake of his head and a smile. "Alright then. Mr. Chopin, would you please tell us what you think of Dorian's character? Or his relationship to Basil?"

"I think it had to do with broken trust," he says simply. "Because it's, like, very obvious that he and Dorian loved each other. But they couldn't be with each other, because they totally never talked. And if you never really talk to someone, how can you understand them properly?"

There was a moment's pause before Mr. Edelstein went to go write that on the board too. Alfred was certain that they talked about other things during class-after all, the board was full of things that he didn't write down-but he spent the rest of class turning over Feliks's words in his mind. When the bell rang, he pretended not to notice Mr. Edelstein trying to catch his eye, and instead hurriedly limped over to his friends, where Feliks was informing Chelle of her poor fashion choices that morning.

"I know, I know," she grumbled. "I overslept this morning, okay? And it was either dress nicely or eat breakfast."

"Um, Chelle? I think Feliks was trying to tell you your sweatshirt's on inside out and your shoes are untied," Alfred pointed out. Blushing, she struggled with the bunched sleeves as she tugged it up over her head to put it on the right way.

"So, does this mean you are going to act like a normal human being for the rest of the day?" Kiku asked with a wry smile. "No more looking like you're going to murder anybody?"

"Although I still want, like, the whole story," Feliks interjected. Toris looked like he'd just been mentally run over by a truck.

"If Alfred doesn't want to talk about something, he doesn't have to," he reassured his friend. "I'm really more interested in how the 'Dinner Party of Doom' went-oh, crap."

"What?"

"Hockey team, incoming at twelve o'clock," Toris replied. There was a collective groan. It was still far to early in the morning to deal with assholes, especially assholes who permanently smelled of BO and yet still thought themselves attractive.

"Oh, look, if it isn't the little fairies," Jack smirked.

"I like fairies," Feliks replied absentmindedly. How in the world such a perceptive person could be quite so airheaded seemed to be beyond Kiku's logic, given the fact that his eyes had glazed over in panic. If there had been any chance that this hallway gathering was going to end peacefully, there wasn't now. Not when someone insulted Feliks.

"Oh, you do, do you?" Jack continued? "Do you like hugging them, and kissing them, and sucking them off, you little tranny-" His words were abruptly cut off by a fist to the face, which hit his jaw with a very satisfying smack. All five of them froze and turned to where Matthew was standing, lightly massaging his knuckles.

"You're benched for the next three games," he said, his voice about as warm as liquid nitrogen. "Get out." Jack didn't even hesitate before taking off. "You good?" Matthew asked, but his voice was interrupted by the sleepy-sounding voice of the intercom.

"Alfred F. Jones, could you come to the dean's office please? Mr. Jones, would you come to the dean's office please?"

"Oh, fuck me running," Alfred muttered, and turned to head back down the stairs. When he burst into Mr. Adnan's office, he was already talking. "Listen, I don't know how that little snitch got here so quickly, but I didn't do-" ...and promptly shut up when he saw that both of his parents were sitting across from Mr. Adnan's desk, and Mr. Wang was leaning against the wall with a lazy, triumphant smile. Francis looked very pale, as though he were about to vomit at any second, and Arthur seemed to not have quite decided whether to punch Mr. Wang in the face or break down crying.

"Ah, Mr. Jones," Mr. Adnan said, hoping that none of those things were going to happen and that this meeting was going to be as peaceful as meetings with Alfred's parents ever were. "Would you please take a seat?" Alfred, afraid of moving too suddenly, went to delicately perch on the chair Mr. Adnan had gestured to. The movement resembled a woman from the nineteenth century attempting not to ruin her skirts as she sat down; the effect would have almost been comical had the atmosphere not already been so tense.

"Alfred," Francis began, "the school is rather concerned about how your skating is affecting your schoolwork."

"Bullshit," Arthur muttered.

"Arthur," Francis ground out through his teeth, "I thought we agreed that we wouldn't do this until everyone had said what they needed to say."

"Oh, I suppose you think I'm just going to sit here and let my son be insulted, is that it?"

"If we could perhaps return to the topic at hand?" Mr. Adnan interrupted. "Mr. Jones, the reason you've been called in is because one of your teachers has reason to believe your athletic commitment is negatively impacting your academic performance."

"What? No! I have good grades!" Alfred insisted.

Mr. Adnan cleared his throat. "Actually, Mr. Jones, Mr. Wang has just informed me that you are dangerously close to flunking your math course this year. We are, of course, happy to offer-" the rest of Mr. Adnan's sentence passed through one ear and out the other. Flunking math. Flunking. Math. Oh, this was not good, not good at all-

"Excuse me," Arthur interrupted, and Alfred felt a small portion of his stomach return to where it should be. "Could you perhaps provide some evidence for this claim? Because the last test Alfred showed me was a long way from failing. Not an A, perhaps, but definitely not failing."

"Well, you see," Mr. Wang replied, every word dripping with poisonous treacle, "test scores are not the only thing that affect grades in my class. I also grade class participation and homework assignments. And I'm afraid that with the way Alfred has been sleeping through class lately, and the way he's been performing on homework assignments, I just cannot rightfully give him a participation grade. In fact, with the score discrepancy, I have reason to believe he may even be cheating."

"That's completely unfair!" Alfred cut in. "You said homework was graded on completion, not whether or not it's right. And I do better on the tests because to help me study, Kiku and Toris explain everything that _you _don't teach to me!"

Continuing as though Alfred had never spoken, Mr. Adnan began explaining what the school called 'their options.' "Now, Alfred, there are a couple different ways we could handle this. If your math grade showed significant improvement before the midterm exams, then we could allow the school year to continue as normal. But Mr. Wang thinks the only way you would have the time for that is through tutoring after school most days a week and giving up your skating to have more time to focus on your academics. Now, you could also withdraw for the year so you would have more time to train, but you'd have to repeat the whole year."

"What about homeschooling? Lots of kids involved in sports do homeschooling!"

"Alfred, I'm sorry, but with the amount we spend on your training, we just can't afford tutors for homeschooling right now. Arthur and I offered to teach you ourselves, using one of the online curricula available, but the county has laws about qualifications and all kinds of sh-um, shale, like that." Clearly, Francis hoped that diplomacy would succeed where fighting had not. Judging by Arthur's snort, his husband disagreed.

"You can of course have some time to talk things over with your family in private," Mr. Adnan reassured him. "But we need to know sooner rather than later."

"No," Alfred replied.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean by-"

"I mean no, there's another option. I can have a hearing. I can have my situation evaluated by the school, and get representation by one of my teachers."

"Mr. Jones, are you quite certain about this? Whatever the panel decides, that decision holds. There's no going back on it."

"I'm sure," Alfred replied, meeting the dean's gaze evenly. To his surprise, the man smiled. _He wanted me to make that decision all along, _he realised.

"Do you have someone in mind to represent you?" Mr. Adnan continued, clearly satisfied with Alfred's answer. Alfred nodded. "Why don't you go get them while your parents and I talk over the procedure?"

Alfred hobbled out of the room as fast as his feet would carry him. Down one flight, then two flights of stairs to the department offices. He started hammering on the door, and without giving anyone a chance to answer, yanked open the door to the English office.

"Mr. Edelstein?" he asked, somewhat out of breath and still grimacing (he had _got _to stop rising to Ivan's bait if this was how it left him). "I need your help."


	6. Eyes Like Frozen Heather

"Mr. Jones, what a pleasant surprise. I take from your expression that you are not, in fact, simply looking for some assistance in your Dorian essay?"

"What?" Alfred asked, corner of his mouth turning down. "Oh, that. No. No, I need you to come with me to Mr. Adnan's office, like, right now. Jeez, why are all you Germans so anal about work?"

"Number one, I am Austrian, not German. Number two, watch your language, Mr. Jones. Number three, who are "all you Germans" exactly? And number four, where are we going and why are we going there?"

Alfred grabbed a hold of his teacher's arm and started dragging him towards the door. "Fine, fine, Austrian. Didn't you say you were a cousin of Ludwig's? Or something?"

Roderich's eyes flicked to Alfred's in momentary confusion, then down towards his hands. "I had forgotten I mentioned that to you," he mumbled. "That still doesn't explain why I am being unceremoniously dragged from my office, does it?"

"It's an emergency!"

"What _sort _of emergency?" Mr. Edelstein managed to gasp out in between huffs and puffs. Alfred tried to be helpful, he really did, but currently he was failing, and rather miserably too.

"Oh, I don't know. The sort of emergency that might result in getting expelled."

Mr. Edelstein's jaw went slack, and he would have stopped short in his tracks had Alfred not been dragging him forward.

"There's no _time _for dawdling!" his young charge shouted, and Mr. Edelstein had to suppress a grin at how much Alfred sounded like _him_. He did not have to try for very long, however, as Alfred had decided that Roderich was simply not moving fast enough for his tastes. And that was how he found himself being carried piggyback by one of his students, through the school, at a speed that might only be outstripped by Ludwig, or Vash when offered the opportunity to save money. Maybe Feliciano if there was something-or someone-to run away from.

Lili Zwingli was very excited about starting highschool. Going to highschool meant that she'd be with her big brother all day (even if people usually mistook her for a teacher.) Going to highschool meant making new friends (she'd made friends with a really nice guy named Eirik, who knew absolutely _everything _about puffins.) But most of all, highschool meant not being bored anymore. She loved her big brother, of course, and was glad that they lived in a neighbourhood with such a low crime rate, but nothing ever happened. Highschool promised otherwise. However, one thing she had not braced herself for was seeing one of the older students come tearing down the hall at top speed, carrying that cravat-wearing English teacher her brother hated so much on his back. Goodness, she hadn't expected it to be _quite_ so exciting!

Alfred had a vague recollection of blowing past a small blonde kid in the hallway, but didn't really remember much of their run back to Mr. Adnan's office. He also wasn't sure exactly how Mr. Edelstein was still out of breath, regardless of the fact that he had been dragged or carried most of the way there. Pushing that thought out of his mind, he wrenched the door open and announced to the gathered crowd,

"My representation, Mr. Edelstein."

Mr. Adnan looked somewhat pleased, Arthur more than a little relieved. Mr. Wang's face was far too blank for it to mean anything other than rage. Francis, upon seeing Roderich, had gone very white indeed. Mr. Edelstein simply blinked several times, as if trying to clear sand from his eyes.

"Francis?" he asked. "It's been a while since I've seen you."

"Roderich. A delight, as always."

"You two know each other?" Alfred asked, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. "Small world after all!" he continued with a wide grin.

Francis still looked rather grey, and Roderich lifted his eyebrows. Francis gave his head a single shake, and Roderich seemed to understand. There was a question still there, in his eyes, but whether or not Francis got his answer Alfred did not learn, as his attention had instead been drawn to Mr. Adnan.

"If we may begin?" the dean asked, to murmurs of consent all around from the gathered adults. "Alfred has chosen to have the school hold a hearing on the matter of his repeating a year, yes?"

Mumbles and nods sweeping the room once more.

"Alfred has procured his faculty representative-Roderich, I take it that you accept?"

"I was honoured to be chosen."

"There is also the matter of getting another student to vouch for Mr. Jones at the hearing. Although certainly not necessary, it does make a favourable impression on the Board to have a student willing to represent you."

"Bollocks," Arthur muttered, although it came out sounding a lot like "bowling" due to the fact that Francis had timed the placement of his elbow into Arthur's ribs with medical precision. Alfred was willing to bet money that he only needed a student rep because the school liked to give the Board the impression that students were involved in the administrative process-students who, more likely than not, were the sons and daughters of the Board members. He definitely agreed with his father: bollocks.

"How about Mathieu?" Francis suggested. "He's Alfred's brother, I'm sure he would be happy to help. And his math grade is fine, although I would like to point out that Alfred is actually doing _better _in chemistry than his brother, so I fail to see why all of this is necessary."

"I'm afraid that as Mr. Jones's brother, that makes him ineligible."

Alfred's blood froze in his veins. Shit. Shit shit shit shit _fucking _shit, he'd been counting on Mattie. Kiku couldn't testify for him, his father wouldn't allow it. Conflict of interest, or whatever. (Alfred's inner movie critic took this opportunity to point out that this was just a school hearing, _not,_ in fact, an episode of Law and Order: SVU, and that real courts didn't look like that in any case.) Alfred ignored the little inner critic.

Instead, he ran through the list of candidates over and over in his mind. Feliks. Toris. Chelle. Feliks. Toris. Chelle. Feliks hated public speaking, too many strangers-especially too many adults-in a room made him nervous. Put Feliks on the stand and he was more likely to get a defense made up of criticising the Board's fashion choices, if he could get anything at all. Toris would just stand there shaking like the skeleton branches on winter trees when the wind blew through them. And Chelle was likely to start shouting, or arguing-he commended her for not censoring her thoughts, but she was never the right choice for a sensitive matter. He also really wanted to punch himself in the face. His friends were in class, probably worried sick about him, and all he could do to repay their kindnesses was to sit around critiquing them.

"I need some air," he gasped, and stormed out into the hallway. He did not get very far, just enough to be out of the sight of the office. Pressing his back flat against the cool metal of the lockers, he let himself slide down to the floor and just sat. Maybe sitting would be enough for now. He was roused from his frustrated trance, however, by the sound of unanticipated footsteps. The heavy, slow steps could only have belonged to-and indeed did belong to-Ivan Braginsky. Had he encountered him an hour earlier, perhaps even a half hour earlier, Alfred probably would have strangled the Russian boy with his own scarf. Instead, he just sat there, eyes like steel, and stared him down.

Ivan, on the other hand, was seemingly delighted to happen upon Alfred. "Should you not be in class, comrade?" he asked.

"No, I should actually be in Mr. Adnan's office, asking him if he would have to expel me if I punched Mr. Wang in the face."

"It is your own fault for sleeping in class."

"Fuck off, Ivan."

"You are not yourself today, Alfred. Are you all worn out? I'm sure someone here is very glad not to have to listen to you never close your mouth."

"Does the sentence 'fuck off' mean something else in your country?"

"This is not like you."

Alfred, gripping the metal of the lockers, pushed himself slowly into a standing position. "Ivan, say whatever you've come to say and-" here he gasped as he made it to his feet and swayed unsteadily-"leave."

"Here," was all Ivan replied, and handed Alfred a small package. He hadn't been able to read the nonsense letters scrawled over the box, but the illustration of a lithe ballerina spreading ointment over her foot gave him a good indicator of what was inside.

Alfred pushed it back into Ivan's hands. "Listen, dude, I've seen what you hockey guys get up to with the freshmen in your spare time. The whole "cayenne-pepper-Icy Hot" trick won't work on me. But nice try. Real clever." He began to limp away with whatever dignity he thought that he could preserve, and his feet gave out from underneath him. He almost felt proud of them, proud that they'd hung on this long. He braced himself for the impact of his knees with the floor; a bracing that was totally unnecessary. Ivan lunged forward and seized his arm at the elbow. The pain of the vice on his joint was almost enough to make him consider not thanking Ivan for not allowing him to fall on his face. Almost.

The suspension wasn't exactly comfortable, but the position did give him an unusually good look at his classmate's face. Plus, it prevented him from breaking his nose and having to get one of those really stupid face splints. He wasn't certain if Ivan looked more or less intimidating up close. Not that he would ever admit to finding anyone frightening. (Except maybe Papa with a hangover. An intoxicated Arthur was one thing, but even he was scared when Francis got drunk.)

"What colour would you call your eyes, anyway?" Alfred blurted out as he straightened from his precarious position. Ivan blinked, as though uncertain where such a question had come from.

"Violet," he replied. "Like-who is that American movie star?"

"I don't know if you've realised this," Alfred said, slowly, "but we Americans have a lot of movie stars. A lot."

"You do not need to tell me that multiple times."

"So, dude, I'm going to need a bit more to go on here than 'American movie star'. And it's tell me twice, not tell me multiple times. Honestly, don't you guys have idioms in Russia?"

"We do. A particular favourite of mine is 'If you do not close your mouth, a bird will fly in, shit in it, and suffocate you.' Which is exactly what will be happening to you in a minute if you do not let me think."

Empty threat or no, Alfred shut his mouth and let Ivan think.

"Why are you out here, little comrade? Have you upgraded from sleeping through class to skipping?"

"I'm not-" Alfred's head was screaming _It's none of your business, get out!-_but his heart had other ideas. Instead, he punched the locker behind him with enough force to leave a sizeable dent. Even Ivan's eyes widened in alarm at that expression of his anger. Alfred decided that now was the time for the dignified exit that Ivan had stolen from him and stalked off. Ivan, ignoring Alfred's drama queen antics, followed.

"Where are you going, Alfred?"

Alfred tried to ignore him.

"Alfred, where are you going?"

Alfred continued to try to ignore him.

"Alfred? Allllllfred?"

Alfred's fist was dangerously close to connecting with Ivan's face.

"Alfred? Why are you wanting to punch Mr. Wang in the face?"

Alfred considered correcting Ivan's presumption that it was Mr. Wang that he wanted to punch in the face (he had _got _to stop voicing his thoughts), but decided that it was probably better for everyone's health if he let the other boy go on thinking that. Besides, it wasn't like it was untrue.

"Because he's an asshole. Do I need much more of a reason?"

"No, I agree. He is never doing things the way I tell him to, even if my way is better."

"At least we've found something to agree on. It's a Christmas miracle," he muttered, complete with borderline aggressive jazz hands.

"You still have not told me why you want to punch him in the face today in particular."

"Because I don't like it when people try and take things-take things away from me."

"You are a spoilt child."

"Really? 'Cause I could say the same about you."

"I was uprooted from my home country and taken here forcibly. I gave up a promising career, my language, and my home. I wouldn't talk about having things taken away from you, little comrade."

"No, you're the poster boy for well-adjusted. Walking around with a metal pipe terrorising students weaker than you, picking fights with me at the skating rinks, and holding grudges against anyone who has an interest in anything remotely artistic. Perfectly normal."

"I see. He's taking your skating from you, isn't he?"

"What? No! Who are we talking about?"

"Mr. Wang, and yes, he is. Your blush gives you away, Alfred."

For not the first time in his life, Alfred spewed internal curses at his birth parents for giving him a complexion that broadcasted his emotions to the world.

"So what?"

"I shouldn't care, should I?"

Alfred shrugged, turning to continue back down to the office. The Board probably wouldn't agree to a hearing without student representation. It was time to start making decisions.

"But I do, little comrade."

Alfred refused to turn. He refused to give in to temptation. But the statement did succeed in making him stop in his tracks.

"I should be happy, shouldn't I? That you will lose your skating the way I lost my dancing? I am not."

"Are the riddles really necessary? God, you're just like stupid Dorian, dancing around whatever you're saying."

"I'm going to represent you at your hearing."

"What is it with the pranks today, Braginsky? I'm not biting."

"It is not a joke."

"You'd set me up."

"If I wanted to watch you fail, would I offer at all?"

Psycho had a point. Huh. Score one for the Russian.

"Fine. What's in it for you?"

"Well, usually I would settle for acknowledgment of my superiority. But you seem unusually stubborn, Alfred. So I will settle for something that _proves _that I am better than you are."

"Uh-huh. Keep dreaming, asshat."

"Ballet lessons."

"What about them? Aside from the fact that you don't take them anymore." Alfred just couldn't resist getting in a little jibe at Ivan's expense. Ivan's eyes flashed in warning and Alfred ducked his head. Now would not be a good time to lose what little support he had.

"You will be taking them. With me. I want to see you on your knees, begging me to stop, to let you stop, begging me to end the ache in your muscles, and when that day happens I will laugh."

"You wish. I'm never going to beg you for anything."

"Does that mean we have a deal?"

"Done."

Alfred spat on his palm and offered his hand out to the larger boy. Ivan stared at it, utterly repulsed.

"I think I will trust your word above your saliva. I do not think you could pay me enough to touch you."

Alfred stuck his hands back in the pockets of his jeans. Ivan started walking back towards the staircase, and Alfred matched his stride. As insane as this idea was, it might...it might actually work, he considered to himself. Ivan could be-and often was-downright terrifying. Terrifying enough to persuade even teachers. Maybe if he could get them to look past Mr. Wang's argument, and Mr. Wang's money; maybe if he could get them to look at his skating and his chemistry grades instead-maybe he could win them over. Ivan was trying to say something to him, but it went in one ear and out the other. He did not respond to Ivan's questions. He did not offer thoughts of his own. He did not even notice when Ivan opened the office door so forcefully it nearly came off of its hinges.

"Alfred, _this _is your student representation?"

That voice shook him out of his reverie, because that voice did not have a Russian accent, and that voice was asking a genuine question, and that voice was in response to the room-wide, open mouthed stares.

"Um, yes?"

"Alfred, are you really sure this is a good idea?" Arthur and Francis looked as though they were on the edge of hyperventilation. The only plus side to this situation was that Mr. Wang looked as scared as they did. That drove Alfred to stick with his decision more than anything else.

"Ivan Braginsky will be representing me at my academic disciplinary hearing."

"Looks like everything is in order," Mr. Adnan cut in. "The school just needs a few signatures for the paperwork-Yao, you've already signed this, but Mr. Bonnefoy-Kirkland and Mr. Kirkland-Bonnefoy, if you could sign here and here-Alfred, put your signature _there, _excellent; Roderich and Ivan, if you could?" And with a final flourish of his own pen, the report was filed. As the ink dried, Alfred looked at Ivan's name signed next to his own and wondered if he'd just signed away his career or won a war.

Mr. Adnan was waving everybody except for his parents out of the room, and Ivan had already disappeared back to whatever circle of hell he'd come from, so Alfred left alone.

"I'm going to kill myself," he muttered as he headed in the direction of-was it lunch? Was the cafeteria even open? He was going there anyway, he needed food. Shifting the bulk of his backpack's weight to his left shoulder, he tried to recall the rest of his schedule.

"Mr. Jones."

"No, better yet, Mr. Wang's going to kill himself," he continued. "God knows he-"

"Mr. Jones." There was something a little cold about the English teacher's posture, but Alfred ignored it. Mr. Edelstein was probably tired of putting up with all of Mr. Wang's crap, too.

"Oh. Hi, Mr. Edelstein. Sorry about the shit show in there."

"I wonder if I will ever be able to teach you not to use such plebeian language."

"Dad hasn't succeeded yet, so my bet is on 'no'."

"Do you have a moment to spare? I'd like to see you in my office."

Internally, Alfred was crying. Today was corn dog day at lunch, and he could really have used some deep fried comfort. But it probably wasn't a good idea to piss off the person who was practically acting as your lawyer, so he agreed to go back down to the office.

Mr. Edelstein unlocked one of the drawers in his filing cabinet and started rifling through it as soon as they arrived at his desk. Alfred took this as a prime opportunity to do a little snooping. Granted, he could do very little snooping, given that Mr. Edelstein was right there, but in all of the spy movies people's desks were super important! It was critical not to miss anything!

This was not hard to do, since there was very little on Mr. Edelstein's desk to miss. There was a pretty glass paperweight, shaped to look as though there were pretty tropical fish swimming through it. A manila folder lying open, filled with half graded papers. A sheet of music, scribbled on in narrow script. And a framed photo of Mr. Edelstein, standing with a woman in a green dress and an albino man. The albino man had his arm around Mr. Edelstein, and was laughing uproariously at some joke Alfred could not hear. Both his teacher and the albino had their hands resting on the shoulders of a young child with equally pale hair.

"Oh, you like my family portrait?"

"Is that-"

"My son? Yes. Raphael. And that's Elizaveta, and Gilbert. Actually, I called you down here because of him-here." Mr. Edelstein placed a small stack of leather-bound books in his hands. Alfred nearly staggered under the weight. "They're his old journals. He was a skater, you know, just like you."

"Um, thanks. Are you sure he's okay with you, uh, letting me read his diaries?"

"Journals, not diaries," he retorted with the tired precision of someone who has made a correction one too many times. "And he's fine with it. Trust me, these aren't even all of them. Just the ones from his skating years."

"Why exactly am I getting these again? No offence, but a guy who journals this much is probably a little, um, neurotic."

Roderich shrugged. "Just a hunch that they'd help. Take them or leave them, it's up to you." He turned to his desk and started flipping through the half-graded papers, and Alfred crept out of the office, no longer welcome, and headed in the direction of the cafeteria for the final time that day. Every forty-five seconds or so he paused for a brief rest, not only because his feet hurt and his books were heavy, but also because he was half anticipating yet another interruption. Mercifully, there wasn't one, and he was permitted to collapse onto one of the slightly greasy bench and table sets with a plate piled high with corn dogs. Ludwig would kill him for eating that poorly on a training day, but right now processed meats in the present took priority over destroyed eardrums in the future.

Pushing unpleasant thoughts out of his mind, he turned his attention to the first few pages of the book Mr. Edelstein had given him. There was definitely something weird about being given people's personal items as a gift, but his spy senses were itching. He wasted no time in starting to rifle through for information.

The journal did, at first, make him question what sort of writing implement this 'Gilbert' was fond of using. A fire poker, or perhaps a large and cumbersome spear dipped in ink were the current favourite candidates. Still, after each sentence was deciphered, it did provide him with a surprising amount of entertainment. He hoped Ludwig would bring his brother around to practice someday, he sounded like a remarkably enjoyable person. For example, his entry about the general state of the holidays:

_If the Salvation Army man outside the grocery store rings his bell one more time while I am desperately driving around in circles trying to find a parking space, I'm going to shove one of the plastic antlers from the reindeer display up his ass. _

Sometimes his musings were nothing more than what seemed to be whatever thought was running through his head at any given time. He talked about wanting to take up the electric guitar, about the weather, about anyone who wasn't as awesome as he was (which was pretty much everyone. God, the guy had an ego). But most of all, he talked about skating, and somehow Alfred was growing to like and respect him for that. He'd been a pair skater, and his partner was someone named Elizaveta-was that the girl in Mr. Edelstein's photograph? He'd thought that was Mr. Edelstein's wife, given that his teacher had called the kid with the weird braids his son, but to each their own*.

_Dear Journal (no, it's not a diary, Elizaveta you can shove it),_

_Today's practice was a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow I'd gotten it into my head that attempting the quad lutz in competition was a good idea. Not just the quad lutz-dinner. Be back._

_ (_**_Gilbert, did you learn nothing from Plushenko?_**_) _

_Eliza, STAY OUT! _

_Anyway, not just the quad lutz, but I'm going to do a quad and then Elizaveta's going to do a triple lutz beside me. How in the name of God we're going to pull this off I have no idea. Furthermore, my manager hired a new costume designer who doesn't seem to understand the concept of 'less is more.' I have no idea how many rhinestones are on my costume, but if there are enough to cause chafing, then there are too many._

Alfred agreed.

_I should have just asked Francis to take care of it, but he's off gallivanting again, God knows where, probably with the new boy toy of his, the English one. Heard some fantastic stories of what they got up to last weekend-_

Alfred snapped the book shut with record-setting speed. One thing he was definitely not interested in was reading about his parents' pre-marriage sex life. He skipped the next five pages and skimmed the one after that before deeming it safe, then read onwards.

_There was some kid in the stands at our practice today, friend of Elizaveta's. First of all, he was wearing a cravat. Who the hell wears a cravat? Secondly, he just sat there with his legs folded and his lips all pursed like he'd just swallowed a gooseberry. Wonder what crawled up his ass and died._

Alfred tried-and failed-to muffle several giggles. Mr. Edelstein did look a little bit like that during class whenever someone said something particularly stupid. He looked even more like that during the staff meetings he was forced to attend.

_I have no idea where Elizaveta even finds these friends. Also, he speaks German all wrong. Apparently he's Austrian, which explains most of these complaints. Probably angry from all of the three dollars he had to spend today to take the T. He does have really nice eyes, though. Really, really nice. They look kind of what I think heather would look like if it froze over. _

Alfred very quietly put the book down and let it close with a thump. Someone else had eyes like winter flowers. Someone with whom he'd had far, far too many close encounters this week. Ivan had those eyes.

Exactly what was Mr. Edelstein trying to tell him?

*Google "suum cuique."


	7. Studio

AN: A big thank you to everyone who is keeping up with this story! (especially because everyone who puts up with my weird update schedule!) Thank you to my followers, to my favouriters, to my reviewers. Thank you to everyone who has supported this endeavor, and a special thank you to my beta Espresso_Yourself. To everyone who is kind enough to leave a review, I am extra grateful, because your thoughts and opinions mean a lot to me. Don't hesitate to share what you want to see more of, especially the elements of RusAme that you love/wish you saw more often/have never seen before. Anything goes-if I can't work it in here for plot reasons (for example, if you have a kink for FrUk + RusAme, or USSR/America, or something else that would just be impossible in this story because of the determined character relationships), just send me a PM and I'll see if I can make it happen in a one shot!

His fourth corndog was interrupted by the arrival of Kiku at his table.

"Hey," he grunted at his friend around a mouthful of food. "S'up?"

"You do know it's repulsive when you do that, don't you?"

"You sound like my dad."

"Speaking of your father, I saw him in the hallway on my way here. Is something wrong?"

"Depends on how you define 'wrong,' doesn't it?"

"Alfred."

"I mean, things could be a hell of a lot worse. I could, I dunno-"

"Alfred."

"They're kicking me out of school."

His usually stoic friend's face darkened, and Kiku was already rising from his seat before Alfred could even finish his thought.

"Sit down, nothing's certain yet."

"Alfred, who is trying to expel you?"

"It's, um, kind of your dad."

"My father?"

Alfred snorted. "Yeah. Do you know another giant douchebag around here who has it in for me?"

"Alfred, you are my friend, but I would ask you not to disrespect my family."

"Listen, I know your dad's got some kind of weird issue with Leon-"

"Don't speak of things you know nothing about."

"Dude, I-"

"_Don't speak of things you know nothing about._"

"Kiku?"

"Goodbye, Alfred." He stalked out on his heel, and Alfred felt a little bit like faceplanting into the remainder of his lunch. He was, in fact, in the process of doing so when someone standing behind him caught his shoulder.

"Hey, Al. Rough day?"

"You haven't seen the half of it," he groaned. "And you don't look so hot yourself. Why did you come to school half dressed?"

Michelle blushed. "Oh. That. My mom burned breakfast this morning, and so we had to wait for the firetrucks to show up and everything. I was standing on the lawn in my pyjamas, I was so embarrassed!"

"Huh. But your mom cooks such good food."

"Guess she was distracted this morning," she shrugged. "Anyway, so why did Kiku just leave looking like he was going to cut your head off at any second?"

"Pissed at Mr. Wang."

She blinked. "Well, that's nothing new."

"Yeah, but he got super angry 'cause I said his dad is only threatening to expel me-"

"You're getting _expelled_?"

"-because he has some weird issue with Leon."

"Alfred, sweetheart, I love you. But you're an idiot."

Alfred threw his hands up in the air. "What did I do?"

"Why'd you drag Leon into your fight?"

"Cause that's why his dad has such a problem with me!"

"It'd probably help if you weren't constantly giving him smartass replies in class."

"Dad says that leaving that relationship was the best thing that ever happened to him."

The corner of her mouth twisted up, neither confirming nor denying what was said. "Maybe it was. 'S not my story to tell. All I know is that Mr. Wang feels like he lost his son that day, and that maybe you should listen to people other than Arthur once in a while."

"What the hell? Chelle, you're not making any sense."

"Maybe-maybe Arthur's story isn't the only one worth hearing. All I'm saying."

"I've gotta go," Alfred mumbled, and he gathered up his books and heading to his next class. Even that luxury was interrupted by a familiar buzzing in his pocket. Cursing and swearing, he dug around until he pulled out the object in question.

**_(617) 236-0004: Hello Alfred._**

**_Alfred: the hell is this_**

**_(617) 236-0004: It is Ivan, of course._**

**_Alfred: god, what do u want_**

**_Ivan: Lots of things. I'll settle for you at our first lesson tomorrow._**

**_Ivan: Alfred?_**

**_Ivan: Don't tell me you've already forgotten._**

**_Alfred: no fucktard_**

**_Alfred: some of us need time 2 type_**

**_Ivan: Some of us are slow, evidently._**

**_Alfred: Ivan shut up_**

**_Ivan: ^J^_**

**_Alfred: ?_**

**_Ivan: Is me, da? Watching you._**

**_Alfred: k, ur weird_**

**_Ivan: ^J^_**

**_Alfred: gt 2 the pt_**

**_Ivan: …? _**

**_Alfred: Get. To. The. Point. Who's stupid now?_**

**_Ivan: Still you. Tomorrow, studio, 3 AM. _**

**_Alfred: fuck u. ballet 2mrw, gotcha. anything else?_**

**_Ivan: ^J^_**

**_Alfred: GO AWAY_**

He thumbed out of his messages and into the contacts list, then pressed the dial button. He listened once, twice for the ring. On the third, the line clicked to life.

"Alfred? Are you okay? We were just about to leave. I hate talking while I'm driving, so make it quick."

"Dad?" Alfred's voice actually cracked on the question and he mentally kicked himself. "Can I come home?"

"Oh, Alfred," his father sighed. "I don't know. It seems like the school is already angry enough with you." Muffled static came through the other end of the line, and then Arthur returned. "Alfred? I'm going to put you on to Francis, alright? The car won't start, and I definitely don't trust _him_ under the hood."

"K. Bye, dad."

"Allo?"

"Papa? Can I come home early?"

"Ah...Arthur, watch the cables!...I have no idea why he thinks he's better with cars than I am, he burns down the kitchen three nights a week…"

"Papa. Focus."

"Of course I have no problem with you coming home early. What does your father think about it, though?"

Alfred shrugged before remembering that Francis couldn't see him. "Dunno. He just said something about the school, then passed me over to you."

"Oh. Well, I don't give two shits about your school right now, so why don't you meet us down here in the parking lot?"

"Be there in ten."

"_Je t'aime, Alfréd_."

"Yeah, yeah, I love you too." Francis hung up the phone. "Sop," Alfred muttered, but he grinned. He didn't feel like grinning when he finally reached the car, though. He was exhausted and in pain and felt, ashamed as he was to admit it, more than a little ready to cry. When he had successfully navigated his way across the frost covered asphalt, he found Arthur swearing rather loudly at the car engine, face smudged with soot and more than a little engine oil.

"Oh, fuck me…" a spurt of black liquid splashed onto his sweater. "This thing has so much oil in it, at this point I'm waiting for the U.S. Army to show up and fix it. Francis, try the fucking ignition again!" he shouted as he slammed the hood shut. Francis turned the key once, twice, and by some miracle on the third try the car sputtered life. "Thank bloody fuck," Arthur groaned. "Into the car."

Alfred started crawling into the backseat, and started when he saw that Arthur was following him. Upon seeing the look that his son was giving him, Arthur shot him a rather grumpy glare. "You think I'm going to leave my son alone after all the shit he's been through today? I'll call Ludwig later. Training is cancelled."

Alfred might have had the will to protest had he not been suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry.

"Shh, it's alright," Arthur muttered, and he brought Alfred in to lean on his shoulder. "We can forget all about this tomorrow morning."

As Alfred drifted off and Francis began to drive towards their house, Arthur stared at the passing scenery. One thing was certain, Yao Wang would rue the day he ever crossed his son's path. Even if it meant a replay of that night, even if it meant his destroyed reputation, even-even if he lost Leon. He would defend Alfred until the very end.

Alfred was lucid that night. His drifting was always interrupted by a the presence of various sounds: several doors opening and shutting, the slam of a window shutter, a strain of music. Every time he closed his eyes he kept waiting for the devil to appear behind them, and yet he never did. Only a glistening, barren wasteland and a young man walking through the drifts of snow ahead of him. The figure was blurred by the rapid snowflakes, and even as Alfred screamed for him to come back, he just kept walking into the storm until he disappeared completely.

He woke with the feeling of slowly being strangled to death. This was largely because during the course of the night, he had managed to become completely ensnared in his blankets. Maybe that was why Mattie usually hated sharing a bed with him. He glanced at the clock-2:13. Probably time to start getting ready, if he was meeting Ivan at the studio. As if on cue, his phone buzzed.

**_Commie Bastard: Are you awake?_**

**_Commie Bastard: Alfred?_**

**_Alfred: awake pls leave_**

**_Commie Bastard: See you soon! _**

**_Alfred: yea yea wutevs_**

He grabbed his skating bag and a protein bar off of the kitchen floor. He'd put his shoes on the wrong feet twice before he managed to get them the right way round-not a great start to the morning. Scribbling a note to his parents-_left for skating early-_on the kitchen table, he bolted out the door and promptly headed back inside for a jacket, cursing under his breath at the New England autumn temperatures. More properly attired for his adventures, he set off at a brisk jog for the studio in the town centre.

When the elevator doors dinged open on the third floor, Alfred actually blinked in surprise. He didn't think anyone would be up at this hour of the morning except for himself and Ivan, and yet the studio was already moderately crowded. He peered into one of the doors and caught sight of several lines of girls in pink tights and black shirts standing around the edges of the room, practicing holding their arms and legs this way or that way. Didn't look too hard.

His musings were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.

"Alfred, right? Williams-Jones?" The voice belonged to a young woman with an accent similar to Ivan's, and the same very short, silvery blonde hair, and _holy smokes did she have huge boobs. _Seriously, Al knew a few Playboy models who might be jealous of them.

"Um, hi?" was the most he had managed to squeak out. He realised later that he'd probably come off as more than a little rude, but it took most of his willpower to keep his eyes focused on her face, so he figured it was forgivable.

"Vanya told me you would be coming today. He's over in Studio Three, if you want to head that way. Changing rooms are back there," she gestured over he shoulder, and then waltzed back to the front desk with a knowing smile on her face. Deciding to ignore the weird-ass receptionist for now, he headed straight to the studio. As soon as he opened the door, however, he was cut off by a loud shriek of "Not on the marley!"

He froze, foot hovering above the threshold, and scanned the room. There didn't appear to be anyone there, and he shivered on instinct. What if this studio was haunted by the spirits of ballet students Ivan had killed? Oh, God, he wasn't ready to die! He was rescued from this morbid train of thought by the emergence of a familiar looking head from behind the speakers.

"Oh. It's just you," he muttered.

Ivan looked less than amused. In fact, he was positively glowering at him.

"_Da_, it is me. And you should not put your foot down on the floor if you value having it attached to your body."

Swallowing, Alfred moved his foot back onto the safe carpeting.

"Can I come in if I take my shoes off? Don't wanna be here any longer than I have to."

"Don't you have ballet shoes?"

"Uh, no. I have socks?"

"That will do for today, you barbarian. Come inside."

Alfred did as he was told and slipped off his shoes before padding inside the studio. The mirrors were more than a little weird, the way they made your reflection ripple infinitely across the walls, but it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. Setting down his bag against the wall with a soft thump, he crossed the room to where Ivan was emerging from the tangle of wires and speakers that was the sound system.

"Why are you not dressed?" Ivan asked upon seeing his prospective student.

Alfred pulled at the red t-shirt and blue sweats in confusion. "Braginsky, I have no idea where you've been living all your life, but I _am _dressed. C'mon, let's get this over with."

Ivan, to his credit, did not cry or put his fist through a wall. He did, however, overturn all of the newly repaired speakers, and this time put a sizeable dent in one of them.

"Damn it," he muttered. "I have to get Eduard in to fix that now." Turning to his charge, who was looking at him in some alarm, he continued as though nothing particularly out of the ordinary had just happened. Given that he'd walked in on Ivan fixing the speakers, Alfred then correctly concluded that nothing _had._ Not for the first time that day, he wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

"Go put these on, little comrade. And never let me see you in my studio in anything less than the proper clothes again." Ivan handed him a pair of fitted black legging-pant-things and a white top. Alfred opened his mouth to protest, and apparently Ivan was having none of that.

"I don't want to hear it. Or else, when I go up in front of the Board…" He let the threat speak for itself. Mutinously, Alfred grabbed the clothes from his hands and started to stalk off towards the changing rooms, but Ivan caught his shoulder before he could escape.

"Oh, I wouldn't be like that, little _Amerikan. _Or next time, I'll put you in _tights._"

That left Alfred horrified enough to go put on the new costume without further objection, although silently he was definitely beating Braginsky to a pulp. When he returned to the room, pivoting this way and that in front of the mirrors, he tried to convince himself that it wasn't so bad. Really, it wasn't much, if any tighter than his skating costumes. But the clothes were Braginsky's, which made him feel like there was a brick in his stomach. Ivan, however, didn't seem to notice his charge's discomfort. Either that, or he just didn't care (which Alfred was quick to admit to himself, was probably the truth).

"Come here," Ivan beckoned to the barre at the edge of the classroom. "We will start with the basics. Basics for _children_," he continued, drawing out 'children' so as to emphasise the insult.

Alfred rolled his eyes in response, although he did walk across the floor.

"I know the basic positions, Ivan. I do skate, jeez."

"Show me."

With the enthusiasm of someone walking to the gallows, Alfred rushed through the five basic positions, then turned to look at Ivan with an air of triumphant defiance.

"Again," was all Ivan said.

Sighing at the Russian's stupidity-didn't he realise that Alfred already knew this?-he ran through them a second time.

"Again," was the only response he received. "Again. Again. Again."

After the fifth try, he finally gave up on trying to prove to Ivan his superiority through the positions.

"Fuck, Ivan, what do you want?" he cried out in exasperation.

Ivan smirked. "Poor little Alfred. Cannot handle even the simplest of ballet positions." With a little tut-tut, he ran his hand all the way down Alfred's leg, adjusting his joints and muscles to make his leg turn out more. The touch made him shiver. Ivan's fingertips were cold, he reasoned. The fingers hesitated on his ankle bone, drawing out his foot a little more. His heart gave an odd kind of flutter, a sensation that quickly disappeared when Ivan grabbed his foot without warning and squeezed.

Agony shot through him, his nerves all turned to fire, and he let himself fall to the floor with a muted thump. Ivan released his foot, surprised.

"You are very weak, da?"

"Fuck...you," Alfred gasped out in reply, breathing still uneven but the control of his senses returning. "You know why that hurt, you bastard."

Ivan continued to stare at him. "I did not, I promise. Let me see it."

"Like hell I will," Alfred scowled in response, tightening himself into as much of a ball as he could. If he kept his feet out of the way, Ivan couldn't hurt him. Ivan hadn't appeared to be interested in that answer though, and had merely continuing to extend his hand, lifted eyebrows giving him, once again, all the threat Alfred needed to uncurl. He still wasn't giving Ivan his foot though, which made the sadistic Russian boy exasperated all over again.

"I'm not going to do anything to your foot, you stupid child."

"Yeah? And why should I trust you?"

"Because seeing you lose this early in the game is not very fun to watch."

"Liar. You probably jack off to my suffering."

"Maybe, maybe not." That made Alfred go ten kinds of red. "We both lose if you don't give me your foot, though."

"_You _don't lose anything," Alfred pointed out. All Ivan did was smile and bend his fingers in a kind of come-hither motion. Gingerly, Alfred extended his leg, and Ivan gently cupped the heel. Alfred hadn't let the other boy support his weight-he needed to be able to pull away-and he refused to flinch as Ivan eased the sock off of him. He swore when he saw that the blisters had reopened and that there was fresh blood seeping through the bandages.

"You did not listen to me, did you, Alfred?" Ivan asked as he started unwrapping the dressing.

"What? I did exactly what you told me to, bastard, _you _squeezed my foot!"

"You didn't use the present I got for you yesterday. And I got it especially for you, too."

"Like I was dumb enough to fall for that shit," Alfred grumbled.

"No matter," Ivan soldiered on with a smile, as though he hadn't heard his companion. "I have more." He pulled out the tube of the stuff, and before Alfred could scream, spread a fingerful over his blisters (wounds, Alfred insisted). He braced himself for the stinging, burning sensation. Instead, all there was was a slight cooling feeling, like plunging into a really cold shower on a hot, humid day.

"We call it snow cream," Ivan told him. "Is good for pointe shoe blisters."

"Um, thanks. I guess."

Ivan stared at him, then shrugged and continued to slather Alfred's foot in the salve. He rewrapped it with the same tenderness, then held out his hand for the other foot.

"I can do it myself."

"Little comrade, must we go through this again?" Refusing to look Ivan in the eye, Alfred handed over his other foot. At least Braginsky made the process relatively quick, so his humiliation wasn't overly drawn out. As Ivan finished wrapping, Alfred caught sight of the clock on the wall.

"Oh _shit,_" he hissed.

"Hm?"

"Braginsky, I've gotta go. I need to be at the rink in five minutes-"

"I'll give you a lift."

"What? Nah, it's fine, but I've gotta go _now-_"

"I am going anyway. I have practice."

Right. He'd forgotten about that. "But seriously, it's no big deal."

"And is not a problem for me. Consider it a favour."

"A favour for what?" Alfred grumbled. "You were the one who injured my foot in the first place."

"And you were the one stupid enough not to listen to me in the first place. We can stand around here all day argue about it, which would raise a lot of questions, or you can accept my offer and we can leave."

"Fine. Let's go." Alfred yanked his bomber jacket on and started to struggle to put his sweats on over the pants Ivan had given him. Like hell he had time to change, Alfred wanted _out._ Ivan looked at him askance, then just reached for his coat and shrugged into the sleeves. Fishing for his car keys in his pockets (Alfred hadn't know a coat could have so many), he started heading towards the studio door. The busty receptionist had given him a hug and babbled to him for a minute or two in what Alfred presumed was Russian.

"Cute girlfriend," Alfred mumbled as they headed out to the car.

"Girlfriend?"

"Uh, the receptionist? You know-" he cupped his hands over his non-existent boobs, miming their shape.

"That is my sister," Ivan said simply, and Alfred went as white as the snow around them and did not open his mouth the whole drive to the hockey rink. This was partially because he would not put it past Ivan to pull an AK-47 out of the backseat and shoot him through the head after the comment he had made about Ivan's sister, and also because Ivan's driving made Leon's look tame. They'd skidded four times over some early morning ice, come dangerously dangerously close to hitting the guardrail, and at some point surpassed the speed limit by thirty miles an hour. Alfred wasn't usually a religious man, but right now he had muttered every prayer Arthur or Francis had mentioned in passing around Christmas or Easter over the course of that perilous ride.

Apparently, it worked, because he not only arrived alive and unharmed, but also before the rest of his family did at the rink. With a just barely audible thanks to Ivan, he looped around the back and came out the front doors of the rink just moments before Arthur and Francis pulled up. Arthur hadn't even stopped the car properly before Mattie jumped out the back door and started running up to his brother.

"What the hell, Alfred?"

"What?" His heart made a funny ba-dump noise, like it had considered stopping for an instant before deciding it would much rather be alive than dead. How could they have found out already, he'd been _so careful-_

"Mr. Wang is trying to _expel you?_"

Oh. That. "How angry would you be if I said yes?"

"Angrier than is healthy for the state of his well being."

"Revenge brownies angry?" Alfred asked hopefully.

"Maybe. I'd need to ask Tim for some of his stash, though, I don't have enough for it to show up on a screening…"

"Ooooh, Mattie's been _smoking, _Mattie's been getting _stoned…._"

"Shut it, Al, I know for a fact you have half a pack of cigarettes in your underwear drawer."

"Hey! I haven't had one of those in ages! Like, three weeks! And what were you doing in my underwear drawer?"

"All mine were dirty, but I decided I'd rather go commando than have Superman's logo on my crotch."

"Superman is awesome! And TMI bro, I do _not _need to know about the details of your boxer-wearing, or lack thereof."

"And I did not need to know that you'd stolen one of Papa's _Playgirl _magazines."

"_Mattie!" _Alfred hissed, absolutely mortified that his brother had found it and that he'd felt the need to bring it up. Mattie and Francis had always dealt better with the whole 'sex thing' than he or Arthur ever had. "I was just curious!"

Matthew put his hands up in the 'surrender' pose. "Whoa, take it easy, Al. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"Not even Papa or Dad?"

"Not even Papa or Dad," he promised, crossing his fingers over his heart as he did so. "And you know I wouldn't care, right?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Dude, that would be pretty weird if you did," he pointed out, gesturing towards the car where their parents sat.

"Touché. And besides, it's not like I didn't take a look too."

"TMI again, Mattie."

His brother continued on like he hadn't even heard him. "And regardless of who you're attracted to, I _highly _recommend talking to Papa about vibrators. Seriously, I had the best-"

_"Mattie!" _

Matthew grinned and shook his head. "Nope, never gets old. You and Arthur are such prudes."

Alfred flipped him the bird as he headed towards the car, but Matthew just laughed and waved over his shoulder. He stuck his head in the passenger side window of his parent's car.

"Can I walk to school?"

"I don't see why not," Francis conceded. "It's not far."

Arthur looked somewhat more uncertain about letting him go, but Alfred didn't bother waiting for both parent's permission. Slipping his headphones on, he put his head down and went straight to the main building. He was about halfway through his favourite playlist and struggling with his locker, which appeared to be jammed shut, when he someone interrupted him.

"_-hot blooded,-_"

"Mr. Jones."

"_-got a fever of a, _morning Mr. Edelstein, _hundred degrees-"_

"Mr. Williams-Jones."

_"-c'mon baby,-_"

"Alfred!"

"Yes?"

"You're going to go deaf if you keep listening to that god-awful music," the teacher protested at the sound that was still blaring out of his headphones.

"Something got your goat this morning?" Alfred asked as he pretended to struggle to hit the pause button so he could finish the end of the song.

"The general nonsense I have to put up with in order to teach here, but that's nothing out of the ordinary."

"I'm not in trouble again, am I?"

"By some stroke of good fortune, no. I must say I was most impressed with your performance yesterday. Most students would have found themselves in a great deal more trouble. Then again, there seems to be a special Providence that protects fools, drunkards, and you, so I suppose that is something."

"Isn't that a quote from some big Prussian military officer?"

"Otto von Bismarck? No, it's a false attribution. But we can pretend, can't we? The best parts of history are, after all, often exaggerated or outright fictional."

"Your diary friend-Gilbert-taught you that quote, didn't he?"

"What gave you that impression?"

"The Prussian eagles he doodled everywhere were a small clue."

Mr. Edelstein grinned. "Yes, he would do that, wouldn't he?"

"You haven't read them?"

"No, I have not."

"So then why give them to me?"

"They weren't mine to read-they were meant for someone else. Trust me, they will benefit you more than they ever would me."

"Um, sure. Whatever you say."

"Alfred Williams-Jones accepting an adult's word on something. Miracles do happen," Mr. Edelstein replied. "Will you walk with me to my office? I want to discuss your upcoming Dorian essay with you and Mr. Braginsky-you haven't forgotten about that, have you?"

Mr. Edelstein judged, correctly, that unapologetic grin he was receiving meant that he had. However, the tirade that he surely would have embarked upon was indeed interrupted by the timely arrival of one truly hockey-crazed twin.

"Hey, Mr. Edelstein. Can I borrow Al really quickly?" He didn't even bother waiting for the teacher's response before dragging Alfred by the elbow into the nearest stairwell.

"Hey, Mattie, thanks for-"

"Cut the crap, Al. I know you weren't at the skating rink today."

"Uh, Mattie, you know I had private practice this morning."

"Yeah, and I know you weren't really there. Your toepicks always chew up the ice like crazy. So where were you?"


End file.
